


The Dangers of Fair Maidens in Love

by drearyabi



Series: The Dangers of Fair Maidens (A Sansa Stark story) [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: BAMF Sansa Stark, Braime - Freeform, Daenerys Targaryen Is Not a Mad Queen, F/F, F/M, Gendry Waters is a Baratheon, Jaime Lannister Lives, Jaime Lannister Needs a Hug, Jaime/Brienne Appreciation Week, King Tyrion Lannister, Knight Brienne of Tarth, Married Tyrion Lannister/Sansa Stark, Minor Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Minor Meera Reed/Bran Stark, Missandei Deserves Better (ASoIaF), POV Arya Stark, POV Brienne of Tarth, POV Jaime Lannister, POV Sansa Stark, POV Tyrion Lannister, Princess Arya Stark, Protective Arya Stark, Sanrion Appreciation Week, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Shireen Baratheon Lives, Stannis Baratheon Lives, Three-Eyed Raven Bran Stark, Tyrion Lannister is a Good Sibling, Warg Bran Stark, Warg Sansa Stark, sanrion - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:40:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 145,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25859848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drearyabi/pseuds/drearyabi
Summary: The North is safe. The South is safe.The Three Years given for Daenerys Targaryen to return to Westeros are drawing to an end and Sansa Stark makes the journey South to witness the King's Moot that will define the future of the realm she fought so hard to protect.Much has changed since the North and the South have come together but some things have stayed just as they were.In Dorne, tensions increase as Ellaria Sand continues to hold the seat of power, never forgetting the promises of revenge made to herself.Sansa is not the only one travelling a great distance to King's Landing and the return of a long-dead Lord leaves peace and prosperity a dream of the past.(I do not own any characters or worlds in this series)
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Asha Greyjoy/Margaery Tyrell, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Tyrion Lannister/Sansa Stark
Series: The Dangers of Fair Maidens (A Sansa Stark story) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1737991
Comments: 177
Kudos: 103





	1. The Invitation

Sansa Stark awoke with a mouthful of fur. With a start, she wrangled her hands around the small, wriggling body that had taken residence on her neck, and deposited it on the bed beside her. She sighed and allowed herself a giggle as the kitten tried, meekly, to reach her with its tiny claws. 

‘Go on, Missy.’ She laughed, pushing the black beast further away from her. The kitten showed no signs of letting up and crawled back onto her lap, oversized paws kneading the furs. Sansa stretched her arms out, yawned and managed to extract herself from her covers, leaving the cat to its business. 

Missy was one of six kittens that had graced the halls of Winterfell that year, the product of Ser Pounce’s dallying with the kitchen cat, Mildred. Sansa had taken a particular interest in the largest of the litter, as black as its mother and twice as energetic. The little shadow, as she called her, was named Mistress, for her constant mewling demands, by the kitchen boys and the name had stuck. Many of the inhabitants of the keep had balked at the idea of having the kittens flitting around the halls but, no sooner had they grumbled and complained, they had fallen in love and the cats became permanent fixtures. 

The only inhabitant who never saw the sweet appeal of the young beasts was Ghost. The direwolf, Jon’s direwolf, hardly made himself known at Winterfell but, when he did, he growled at the litter and went out of his way to avoid them at all costs. Sansa supposed the pure white wolf spent most of his time hunting and he only returned to warmth on the nights of particularly harsh storms. He’d been spotted at the wall several times, so she heard, and the brothers there let him roam in the Haunted Forest. But he’d always return. However long his absence, Sansa knew she’d see those bright red eyes again. Something tied him down to Winterfell and she’d have to be a fool not to understand what it was. 

She dressed herself in a simple gown of grey and red before calling for a maid to help her tie up her hair. While she sat, her eyes met their reflection in the mirror and she lost herself in her own face. Every time she awoke, she was no more than Sansa, second child of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully. When she looked upon herself though, a Queen stared back. Even after over three years of wearing her crown, she still had to remind herself each day of what it meant. She left Sansa in her rooms every morning and fell back into her familiar embrace every night. When she wondered the halls, she was the Queen. When she spoke to court, she was the Queen. When she ate in the hall, she was the Queen. She allowed herself to shrug off the title when she was in private company but when she was in her people’s eye, she felt more of a lone wolf than Ghost. 

She missed Arya most of all. Even in the most serious of moments, her sister had been there with a wink and a nudge that never failed to bring a smile to her lips. But Arya was not born to be a caged beast and Sansa would be a cruel sister to keep her walled in Winterfell for the rest of her life. When Arya asked leave to travel, Sansa waved away the formality. 

‘You don’t need to ask, Arya.’ 

‘I can go?’ Arya stood in the Queen’s solar, her hands fidgeting before her. 

‘Of course. Go. Explore.’ 

Arya shot a pleased look to Gendry who stood to the side of the room, before turning back and clutching her sister’s hands. 

‘Thank you, Sansa.’ 

‘Just come back to me, one day. Bring the wonders of the world with you, if you can.’ Sansa wanted her sister to leave but she couldn’t help the catch in her throat as she said the words aloud. 

‘Obviously.’ The younger Stark sister smirked. Her partner in most things, stepped forward and bowed his head in thanks. 

‘I would say I’ll look after her-’ 

‘But that would be a foolish thing to say.’ Sansa finished for him with a smile for the pair of them. She couldn’t imagine a better match for her sister and she was glad Arya had found him herself. She dreaded the thought of having to arrange any kind of union for the unruly wolf before her. Gendry Baratheon, as he now was, knew her better than most and was an agreeable young man as far as Sansa could judge. The Lady in her couldn’t wait for the day the two of the them would finally marry, their betrothal had lasted years so far, but it seemed she would have to wait a little longer. That was to be expected, Arya still remained sceptical about becoming tied to the Baratheons and Gendry took every opportunity he had to avoid travelling to his hold in Storm’s End. _They’re as bad as_ _each other_ _._

The days were a little dimmer without the two of the them around. She missed their hijinks the most and some evenings longed to gossip with her sister till the light bloomed in the sky. Such things could not be done with Ser Brienne. 

Ever loyal, Sansa’s Commander of the Queensguard refused to leave her post and remained by Sansa’s side through everything. She was a good friend to speak with in the night and Sansa enjoyed finishing a jug of wine with the great woman but something held them both back. They never spoke of it, Sansa wouldn’t even know where to begin, but Brienne had not been herself for some time. There was no disguising the reason why. Brienne had found love and companionship, akin to what Arya and Gendry had, in the arms of the infamous Jaime Lannister. Their connection had grown while they fought for Sansa but it had withered soon after. Jaime had not been himself either. The death of his sister and daughter was an unusual blow for him. He planned to travel back North with them, after Tyrion was crowned yet, on the day, he made no appearance. Tyrion had been the one to find him out and returned to them with a shake of the head that dealt the blow to Brienne. The knight had kept her composure but Sansa did not miss the sound of tears in the night. 

Just as the maid was finishing with the final braid and fitting her crown upon the top of Sansa’s deep red hair, a knock at the door turned both their heads. The maid quickly tied the last strand down and pulled away, allowing for Sansa to stand. 

‘Yes?’ She smoothed down her skirts. 

The door opened and Theon Greyjoy popped his head around the corner. When he found her dressed, he took a step inside. 

‘You’re up early.’ He joked. 

‘Aye, you can blame that thing.’ She tilted her head towards the black kitten now walking proudly about her furs. ‘Is everything alright?’ 

‘Giantsbane’s here for you.’ 

‘Ah yes,’ she picked up a small direwolf broach and pinned it to herself. There was no need for great cloaks anymore. The weather was beginning to warm as winter thawed. ‘He’s just reporting on the raids. Thank you.’ 

He bowed his head and offered his arm out. Gladly, she took it and let herself be led through the many twisting corridors towards the Great Hall. Normally she’d see the likes of Tormund, those she trusted, in her own solar but Theon informed her that he was not alone and that he saw it best to hold the audience in the small council chambers beside the Hall. 

‘Did you sleep well?’ Theon inquired lightly as they walked. She wondered if he’d spotted the dark circles beneath her eyes or if she was walking sluggishly. 

‘Not really.’ There was no point in lying. She remembered tossing and turning in and out of a dream for what felt like hours. As soon as she woke, whatever she dreamt of escaped her but the unsettled feeling, like nausea, deep in her gut remained. For most, bad dreams meant very little, just a creation of the mind, but she knew better. Her dreams had meant things before and she wouldn’t be one to ignore their messages. She only wished she could recall what happened but her mind was empty, drained completely and she knew there was no point in forcing something that wasn’t there. 

Theon spoke of his night. He’d received letters from his sister which he’d sent quick replies to, and he’d taken a walk in the Wolfswood in the cool spring air. She listened intently to his descriptions, imagining herself walking in his steps, the light wind kissing at her bare cheeks. 

‘Sansa!’ Tormund Giantsbane launched himself at her as soon as the door to the council rooms were opened. She welcomed his arms and held tight to his firm body, her face suddenly full of his fiery hair. He pulled away with his wild grin, his eyes searching behind her, looking completely past Theon. 

‘She’s not here.’ She smiled to him, making her way to the tables. Tormund still made no attempt to hide his fascination with Brienne whilst Brienne did her best to fight his advances each time. Sansa often wondered what the two of them would be like together but, every time, she was brought back to the smile on her friend’s face every time she was with Ser Jaime. 

‘Lord Hand.’ Tormund greeted Theon as an attempt to throw off his disappointment. Theon greeted him with a curt nod and they began. 

His reports were satisfactory to her. The lands of The Gift were beginning to flourish after the frosts melted away and were already bearing signs of bountiful harvests to come. There’d been some raids – ships coming in from the East – but they’d been dealt with swiftly. Tormund’s men were just to their own, she was assured; slaying any aggressors but offering others the chance to settle. A great group of them, mostly woman and children, accepted and had been installed in an area of open farmland. She thanked him for his work, as always, and for making the journey South. Tormund was oft travelling between his home in the Gift, Castle Black and Winterfell. He was a pleasure to see, even if he came with his group of slightly unruly free folk and their large appetites. 

‘Anything more?’ She smiled when they were finished. He shook his head, proudly and she said her farewells, inviting him to eat with them that night. The wildlings, as always, accepted, and promised an evening of drunken frivolity for entertainment. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’ 

After taking her leave from them, Theon joined her as she made the short distance back into the Great Hall. The room had already begun to fill up with the most persistent of the court and petitioners could be seen lined up to the side of the room. 

‘My Queen.’ Brienne spotted them approaching and bowed her head. Sansa continually told her to forget the formalities but, in public, she still bowed and deferred to her. Brienne took her place to the side of the throne, a great chair of dark oak wrought by carpenters from Deepwood Motte, topped with direwolves’ heads, mouths open to show rows of snarling teeth. Theon sat at the council table, closest to the throne and they waited. 

Gradually, as the day dawned fully on the them, the room filled and proceeds began. Sansa remained in the seat for hours, hearing her subjects, welcoming guests and making decisions for the whole court to hear. She found her mornings the most tedious part of the day. Most of what she heard was the same as she’d heard the day before and large quantities of the petitions should have been presented to the Lord of their holds. Still, she did as best as she could and listened smartly to her councillors around her. 

While she sat in that chair, she often found herself thinking back to her days standing in court from the other side of the room. She watched Joffrey hear his people on many occasions and always found herself grieved for the poor souls who put themselves out to speak with him, only to be turned away or ridiculed in front of the gentry. She promised herself to not fall into the same ways. She heard as many as she could and strove to always find some solution. If none came to mind, she selected a councillor to find one and promised to get back to the speaker as soon as it was ready. It was a hard labour, harder than she expected, and she found every bone ached by midday, as if she’d run the length of the keep fifty times. Still, she appreciated the chance to speak with the Northern people and never complained about her duty. 

When it was over, she rose and found her head spinning at the sudden movement. It was then that she realised she was yet to break her fast. She sent Podrick to fetch them some bread and meat while she retired alongside her council. They ate quickly when the food arrived and, no sooner were plates cleared, she was walked outside and into the courtyard. Every day she made an appearance outside to watch the young men and women training with the Master at Arms. She shouted encouragement, knowing little about what they were doing, and made small conversation with others watching on. It was a welcome deviation for the hours of meetings inside and she relished her time in the sun and the cool winds. 

After an hour had passed, Theon appeared at her side. She was speaking with a mother of one of the young girls training. The girl in question, named Catelyn but preferring Lyn, was excelling her lessons. Schooling, in Winterfell at least, was to be equal, she had decided. Although she knew she did not enjoy the prospect of swordplay as a child, she would’ve benefitted from the training, far more than her needlework. She still appreciated the skill she’d learnt but knew she couldn’t deprive anymore young girls of the chance to at the very least defend themselves. Boy and girls were taught the same and some of the young boys found themselves just as engrossed in their embroidery, stitching sigils onto sleeves, as using swords and shields. Sansa watched on with a smile as Lyn turned in quick, tight circles around her attacker, wearing them out and taking every opportunity to thrust her sword quickly in and out. She still had much to learn and sometimes tripped over her own feet or on an uneven stone, but her mother was impressed nonetheless. 

At the appearance of her Hand, reluctantly, she rejoined him for the mountain of more noble visitors that swarmed her solar every day. These Lords and Ladies would frequent court in the morning but refused to seek a public audience like the landowners that came to her with their petitions. Instead, they demanded to speak privately and Sansa knew she had no choice but to accept. 

For three more hours she spoke with them, time dripping into the late afternoon by the time she was finished. There was nothing of note revealed to her; mostly Lords and Ladies of smaller keeps with small problems they could’ve easily resolved themselves. She did her duty, despite her qualms, and let out a great pleased sigh when she was at last alone. 

_Where had the day gone?_

The sun was beginning its descent behind the distant mountains and the warmth of the day had left them. She wondered on her own, refusing an escort, and found herself at the stables where the great black mare awaited her. 

‘Empress.’ She reached forward and patted the bristling flank of her horse, long thought lost to her. Before he’d returned North, she spoken of her lost mount to her brother Bran and the boy, with his strange abilities, had thought nothing of warging into various animals to seek her out. The next day, the black mare had trotted up to the castle gates and Sansa had nearly collapsed to see her again. 

Another horse stomped the ground beside it. The chestnut horse looked at her with its dark eyes and she knew what he desired. From a nearby pouch she took a handful of oats and shared them between the two horses, gifted from the Dornish. She tried her best not to recall how both of them had come to her possession. Empress had been her chosen horse; she was instantly entranced by its height and mighty presence. The other, now named Bear, had been given to Margaery Tyrell and was supposed to see her safely home to Highgarden. Margaery had instead chosen to ride with Sansa and, when they were finally safe at Winterfell, Sansa had named her Lady Hand for her loyalty. Now Bear had passed into the hands of Nymeria, the young sandsnake, his previous owner thousands of leagues away. 

Sansa _hoped_ she was thousands of leagues away but she couldn’t be certain. Margaery hadn’t been heard from in the North since her swift departure two years ago. It was assumed she returned home to the Reach to support her brother but Lord Willas had written to Sansa since and made no mention of his sister or the rift between them. 

The stable boys were elsewhere so she saddled Empress herself and stood on a stool to get high enough to swing herself onto its back. She always admired the men who could mount with just the power of their arms and legs. Once on, she brushed down the mare’s mane and they began, first at a gentle trot as they passed through the courtyard and beneath the gate of the Keep. The men on guard were used to her late afternoon excursions and wished her a safe ride as she passed beneath the portcullis. She waved up to them and continued on her way. 

When they were out of sight of the keep, she picked up her speed and Empress’ hooves beat the King’s Road before they veered off it towards the woods. She picked up a familiar path, so familiar the horse barely needed guidance, and pushed onwards at a speed that sent Sansa’s stray hairs flaming behind her. She lost herself in the speed. The air whipped passed her as if they were passing through water and she relished in its coolness. The air in the South, in Summer or Winter, was always warm and muggy. Here, the moisture sat in the ground where it belonged and the air was cool and crisp and clean. She sucked out great volumes of it, as if breathing it in would clear out of her lungs of the bitterness of the day. 

She’d had worse days and she was never one to wish she was elsewhere. Her rides only stood as a reminder of where she was. There was no greater beauty in the world than the woods of the North, her father had told her, and he’d seen enough to know the way of things. She needed only to hear the crunching of leaves and the sound of birdsong to be reminded that her work was in service of something greater. 

For the second time that day her mind drifted to Arya. The two sisters had started the daily tradition of riding out into the Wolfswood and Sansa missed the sound of hoofbeats and a panting horse by her side. The emptiness was pleasant but she still enjoyed the company. _Arya will be out on some adventure._ She knew her sister wouldn’t settle for any less. Arya knew one day, probably soon, she’d be expected to marry. However many times Sansa assured her she wouldn’t have to change herself to wed Gendry, Arya was still dedicated to live out her dreams before she deemed it was ‘too late’. Sansa had thought her own days of adventures were gratefully over yet the thought of his sister’s activities in the wider world ignited a pang of jealously within her that she’d felt before when thinking of her little sister. Her little sister who had seen so much of the world. Her little sister who could defend herself so felt no fear. Her little sister who had found love so easily and had fallen so quickly. 

_You are a Queen, you silly dove._

They’d slowed down to a stop when they reached the clearing. The grass was beginning to grow long again and patches of wildflowers were sprouting between tree stumps and bushes. Ahead, always imposing, the weirwood watched her with its bleeding eyes. The tree had seen more than Sansa could imagine, _I should be jealous of it, not of Arya._

Empress obeyed her silent commands as she took careful steps towards the encompassing branches of the ancient tree. Sansa reached forward when they were close enough and lay her hand against its white bark. Nothing happened. No strange women in red appeared and no visions struck her silent. She released a breath and laughed at herself. 

Everyday, she repeated the same actions and everyday nothing came. Such days of visions and prophecies were long behind them. 

‘Sansa?’ 

Empress wheeled around at the sound of a voice and the breaking of twigs. The Queen showed no signs of concern, instantly recognising the voice of her childhood companion and Hand. 

‘Theon?’ He didn’t usually come out here to see her. 

He broke into the clearing on the brown stallion, his bow slung across one arm with his arrows across the other. He sighed to find her but his eyes soon dropped from his Queen to the ground her horse stood upon. He lingered over every detail but, eventually, he was brought back to her. 

‘There’s a messenger, from King’s Landing.’ He spoke quickly, coming back to his senses. 

She drove her horse beside him. ‘A messenger, did he tell you his message?’ 

Theon turned and they began the journey back to the keep. Sansa was reminded of the time they’d last taken it together, him hardly holding her up and her hardly holding on. 

‘No, said it was for you especially.’ 

_Tyrion._

She hadn’t heard from Tyrion Lannister in some time. Initially, they’d sent letters back and forth, describing their joint efforts at restoring their own kingdoms. Sansa soon found hers to be in a more immediate need of repair whilst his was a far greater, long-term challenge. Over time, responses came in less frequently until they stopped altogether. Sansa wasn’t sure who was the one to not reply but when it stopped, she didn’t blame either of them. Nothing remained to tie them together bar the past. Tywin Lannister’s machinations had bound them as one in marriage but, with that dissolved, they had no cause to speak. 

It had been the best course of action, she was still certain, to finally annul their marriage. It had been a sham and a movement of those long dead. It was unfair for them to remain married, as a King and Queen of separate Kingdoms. It was an easy enough process, like cutting extra thread, and when it was done, she felt lighter as the weight was lifted from her. 

‘Let us hurry then.’ Something told her the news the messenger carried was of grave importance. If it was urgent, she had no doubt a raven would be sent. Quicker and less expensive. Yet to send a man in person meant something different. It required effort and thinking. A bubble of anticipation was rising within her. 

The sky was darkening by the time they arrived back at the keep. As soon as they dismounted, their horses were taken from them and Sansa marched towards the council chambers the messenger remained in. She didn’t have her crown to hand but it was of no matter. This man was from the South so would not care whether she wore it or not. 

With a quick check at herself to ensure she hadn’t dirtied her skirts or picked up any twigs in her hair, she pushed open the door into the small room. Before her, watched over by the cool eyes of Brienne of Tarth, a slender, tall man was seated by the fire, warming his hands. She coughed lightly and he turned. His startled expression gave way to one of realisation and his dropped from his chair to his knee in a clumsy movement. 

‘Queen Sansa.’ He spoke at last after clearing his throat. She bid him rise and he seated himself back on the chair. ‘I have a message for you from King Tyrion of the South. He said it was vital you heard it.’ 

‘Speak then.’ She urged, her interest suitably peaked. He glanced awkwardly at the others in the room but she waved her hand. ‘I can vouch from Theon and Brienne, you can say whatever you have been bid in front of them.’ 

‘I bring an invitation. The three years your Grace specified to await Daenerys Targaryen’s return are almost at an end. King’s Landing is already in preparation for a King’s Moot. My King Tyrion has offered you and your party rooms in the Red Keep for you to witness the decision. He sends a note himself, too.’ The young man reached into a deep pocket and withdrew a neatly folded piece of paper. She took it and, for a moment, ran her finger along the seal of House Lannister with its roaring lion in red wax. She broke it and scanned over the words within. 

In a second everything came back to her. He’d sent her a letter again as if no time had passed since their back and forth of notes. She knew the clear, precise handwriting to be his own and recognised the concise signature at the bottom. His words were simple, mostly repeating what the messenger had spoken but her eyes were drawn to the final lines. 

‘Yours in everything, Tyrion.’ 

Tyrion had not been hers in anything for some years yet the words did not come to much surprise. She could see, at the start of the y, a small blot of ink, as if he’d paused there to think over what he would write. _Curious._ Remembering herself, she refolded the letter and laid to out on the table. 

‘Thank you,’ she returned her glance to the messenger. ‘We will make for King’s Landing as soon as we can. You may travel with us if you wish.’ 

The boy nodded and bowed in gratitude. She reminded herself to bring a hefty bag of coin when she next saw him, for his service to both herself and his own King. 

‘I will make preparation for us to leave.’ Theon spoke up quickly once the boy made his leave. Ser Brienne offered her own services to select an escort to take them south. She thanked them both. 

‘I will send word to White Harbour.’ She grinned. Lord Wylis Manderly was always keen to offer his support when Sansa requested it, not that she’d had much use of his ships thus far. Lord Wyman, at sixty years old and larger than his sons and daughters put together, had been sent to his Gods not long after Sansa returned North and his eldest son took his place. A seasoned fighter who joined them in Winterfell when the dead rose, Sansa was glad to have him close at hand. 

When no more arrangements needed to be made, Sansa made her own excuses and retired to her rooms. Once more her stomach began to grumble and she sent her maid to bring her up her dinner to her rooms. Though she enjoyed spending time in the Great Hall and though the free folk had promised a feast to remember, more pressing duties were at hand. While she waited on her food, she began on her letters, writing till her hands ached. She ate while she wrote, until a selection of perfect letters sat on the desk before her. With careful fingers she dipped her direwolf seal in grey wax and pressed each one down. When she was satisfied, she took herself to the maester and had him send each one off. 

She lingered with the ravens for a little while as they cawed and rattled their iron cages. Some even spat words to her and she responded as if they would understand. She watched the black wings disappear on the horizon and sent a prayer for them to reach their destinations safely. These days such worries were unfounded. There were no enemy archers to shoot birds down and winter storms had ceased blocking their passage. She almost envied the ravens on their clear path. However much she tried, obstacles still persisted in rearing their ugly heads and getting in her way. 

‘My Queen?’ Maester Thomos was seated at his small table, mixing together herbs and rebottling them as new concoctions. She turned from the window. ‘Ser Harrold is here for you.’ 

As he’d said, the young Knight of the Vale stood in the doorway. He was dressed in the colours of the Vale in a light doublet and breeches. Winter may have blown back North again but Winterfell could never be described as warm. Harrold Hardying still chose to dress like he was at a summer tournament at the Eeyrie. _A strange man._

_‘_ Sansa?’ He spoke calmly, with a smiling lilt that matched his bright eyes. ‘You weren’t at dinner and I didn’t see you break your fast, is everything alright?’ 

‘Thank you Maester,’ she quickly spoke. She stepped beside the knight and they left the rookery. ‘I’m fine, just busy. I’ve had a great many letters to write tonight.’ 

‘You missed some feast,’ he chuckled airily, ‘one of the wildlings drank so much ale he lay flat out across the table and fell asleep. His kin found a child and paid it coin to dance on his back. It would’ve been nice to see you there.’ 

‘Thank you, ser, but it is the way of my duty.’ She took his offered arm and allowed him to escort her back to her tower. His own rooms were across the keep but always made a point of taking her in the opposite direction to go out of his way. 

‘They say we’re going South?’ 

The word ‘we’re’ twisted her stomach. She hadn’t even considered that Harrold would intend to journey with them. She half hoped he wouldn’t fancy the trip. 

‘Aye, we’ve been invited to see the King’s Moot.’ 

‘I was thinking, if you’d let me, I could travel with you but turn off and see the Vale.’ Her heart jumped. ‘I’d stay for a few days and follow you.’ It sunk once more. 

‘That would be agreeable but- but we’ll be travelling from White Harbour by sea. If we went on foot we wouldn’t get to the city in time.’ She breathed a sigh of relief. Ser Harrold may have been a knight and the heir to the Eeyrie but he had one fatal flaw she learned quickly. He was deathly afraid of the sea and made every possible excuse to avoid it. 

‘Well then I shall go on foot myself. If I’m in a smaller group, we can ride hard, stop in the Vale, and ride on South. We may miss the Moot but I’ve always wanted to see King’s Landing.’ 

‘You haven’t been?’ She replied. She may have wished for him to remain North but she felt bad for stopping him from travelling at all. It wasn’t his fault she just couldn’t abide him. 

‘Never. If it’s anything like the Vale in the spring- I shall be glad to see it.’ 

They’d reached the door to her tower. She removed her arm from him and allowed him the chance to take her hand and kiss it. He didn’t, however, bend down, and instead he took it in his own hands and clutched it tightly. 

‘You can find some fine fabrics in their markets, I know. Perhaps there will be some for your dress?’ 

She felt her skin pale at the mention of her dress. It was the only thing that was keeping her sane and every time he asked for it, she knew her chances were growing slimmer. 

‘Yes, I’m sure there will be.’ She retracted her hand quickly but not too roughly and smiled as best as she could pushing open her door. He went to say goodnight but she was already inside and was pressing the door shut with a wave. 

‘It will be finished soon.’ ‘There’s just a bit more I need to do.’ ‘I need something special from far away to see it done.’ 

She couldn’t count on her fingers the number of excuses she’d used to explain why the dress wasn’t ready yet there it was in front of her, finished, complete. She thought it might have been her best work yet, if it weren’t for the dread that surrounded it like a thick, choking cloud. 

Accepting that it was ready meant excepting that she was too, and she knew she wasn’t. She spent months deflecting questions and making empty promises to prolong the inevitable. 

_Yet that is the thing about the inevitable- it cannot be stopped._ Her history of dealing with prophecies had taught her that. 

_I have made my bed. I have promised myself to him and, one day quite soon, I will need to make good on my promises. I will have to marry Harrold Hardyng._

_‘_ How are you always so...so optimistic.’ Tyrion Lannister swirled his cup of honeyed wine sluggishly. The heat was beginning to return to King’s Landing and he was beginning to remember how much he appreciated the cold springs of the North. Before long, the city streets would begin to ripen and the smell of sweat and rot would drift up to meet them. Things would be better, he reminded himself, than they had been before. King’s Landing wasn’t so much of a cess-pool as it had been before. Nevertheless, no city can be completely free of bad smells. 

Missandei of Narth, seated opposite him in a light, flowing grey gown, tilted her head to one side. ‘What do you mean?’ 

‘You still have _faith_ in Daenerys, don’t you?’ He raised an eyebrow. He’d asked her what she planned to do when a new King or Queen was selected but the girl had simply shrugged and told him she hadn’t thought of it. She still hoped her own Queen would return. 

‘Of course I do.’ She spoke simply, sipping at her own drink. They sat in the gardens of the keep, sheltered from the sun under a roofed bench. 

‘Well,’ he spoke bitterly, ‘she’d better make her move soon. It’s less than a month till her three years are up.’ He set down an empty cup. His eyes flicked over to a jug filled with more but he shook his head and refused himself. There remained much more for him to do and he knew no one would appreciate him doing it drunk. 

‘There’s still time.’ Missandei replied brightly. Tyrion, however, noticed a drop of doubt within her hopeful words. Daenerys Targaryen’s most loyal advisor truly believed her Queen would return but still knew that every day the chances slimmed. 

Missandei of Narth had been quiet for days after her Queen flew across the seas and out of sight. She still did her duty but remained reserved with Tyrion as if she hated him for taking Daenerys’ place. Eventually she came around, especially after Tyrion named her his own Hand. There were nought in the city more fitting and the young translator seemed at a loss with nothing to do. 

‘Your Grace, Lady Hand.’ The soft lilt of Lord Varys hung in the air, swiftly followed by the aroma of lavender and herbs. Arms in his orange sleeves, the Eunuch approached, a keen smile on his round face. 

‘Varys.’ Tyrion greeted him stiffly. Missandei said nothing but regarded him with cool eyes. Neither were too fond of the perfumed Lord but he was a difficult man to get rid of. Tyrion’s distrust of him stemmed from years of encounters in the courts of the Kings Landing and Essos. The man provided information, as ever, but his unwavering stance on serving the realm left his loyalties vague to all but himself. Tyrion could never trust that he wasn’t involved in a plot but no evidence came to him. Missandei’s dislike of the Lord was still fresh. Daenerys had been wary of him, so she had been too. Now she worked closely with Varys in the council, she began to understand what her Queen had meant. Neither were in the mood to entertain him. 

‘I have news, from Winterfell.’ 

Tyrion’s ears pricked up. He showed no signs of his interest but he couldn’t deny its presence. He’d sent his man with his invitation weeks ago and was yet to hear anything back. He nodded to his councillor as if to say ‘go on’. 

‘Queen Sansa is travelling South. She’ll be sailing by White Harbour and will be with us in time for the moot.’ He explained, proud of his knowledge. 

‘That is good to know.’ Tyrion replied in a measured tone. His heart thumped eagerly to know Sansa would be making an appearance. He had no doubt she’d want to come, she was the one with her heart set on maintaining peace, but couldn’t be completely sure she wouldn’t root herself in the North as she’d done before. ‘Anything more?’ 

The Eunuch pursed his lips. ‘Something you may find interesting.’ He began, his voice petulant. ‘Her betrothed is not travelling with her.’ 

_He isn’t?_ Lord Varys was right, he did find that most interesting. 

‘Why should that interest me?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ Lord Varys shook his head. ‘That is all.’ 

‘Thank you.’ 

After several moments of silence following the spymaster’s departure, Missandei leaned in and placed her hands flat on the table between them. 

‘Does it bother you that she’s to remarry?’ He could tell she was trying her best to make the question sound light and airy. 

‘No.’ He answered. ‘She’s free to do as she wishes. I’m glad she’s marrying, actually.’ 

‘But you miss her?’ 

‘Well-yes. We spent a great amount of time together but- but you must remember our marriage was a sham dictated by my father. It was nothing but a cruel joke.’ He spoke the last words bitterly, recalling his father’s smile as he announced who the soon-to-be orphaned Stark prisoner would be married away to. Tyrion had laughed when his name was called but his mirth faded quickly as serious faces looked back at him. He could only imagine she’d been through the same. 

She shrugged her shoulders and pulled back her hands, dropping them on her lap. She cast a curious glance over him but didn’t say another word. He could tell she didn’t believe him but he didn’t care – _I didn’t lie, no matter what she thinks._

News spread quickly about the keep and later that afternoon the same conversation arose in his own chambers. This time, it was his brother doing the interrogating. 

‘You really wanted her to come? You weren’t just being polite?’ 

‘Of course I want her to come. It’s Sansa. You served her too.’ Tyrion sat at his desk while Jaime paced the room. 

‘You told me you were glad she was leaving.’ He pointed an accusatory finger towards him. 

Tyrion sighed hard. He remembered the conversation Jaime was referencing. ‘I said she was glad she was getting home. I was glad she would finally be satisfied and not seeking revenge or justice or anything else.’ He threw up his hands. ‘Please stop that.’ 

‘What?’ 

‘Pacing back and forth. You’re just like father.’ 

Jaime stopped dead and glared at his brother, then continued walking up and down the room. Tyrion sank further into his seat. 

‘What is it you want me to say? _I hate Sansa and wish to never see her again?_ Is that why you’re here?’ 

‘I want you to admit that you were angry at her. You refuse to say it and it drives everyone insane.’ Jaime rubbed his hands together and spoke quickly. 

‘Why would I be angry?’ 

‘For the annulment?’ Jaime finally stopped and met his brother’s eyes. ‘You didn’t want it.’ 

‘How do you know that?’ Tyrion sat back forward, shooting out a challenging glance. 

Jaime shook his head and threw up his hand. ‘Because I know _you_ , brother. Tell me I’m wrong.’ 

Tyrion said nothing. He didn’t know what to say. 

When he’d seen Sansa at his door the week after King’s Landing had been won, his mind went to all number of places. A great deal had gone unsaid between them. They’d shared a kiss on the stairs in her tower yet it had fallen in obscurity at the back of their minds while war raged. Now there was nothing else to be thinking of and he was just waiting to see if she had anything to say. He hadn’t seen much of her that week but he blamed that on his suddenly full day. Every night he went to bed with sore legs and an aching head. He hardly had the chance to piss, let alone to seek her out. 

Now she was outside his chamber, a strange look in her eye, and he couldn’t help himself but wonder. 

The Septon standing behind her was enough to stop his thoughts in their tracks. 

‘Sansa?’ He welcomed them both in, his face stuck in a look of quizzical bemusement. She appeared utterly unaffected by the man of the Seven following closely. 

‘Are you well?’ She asked somewhat stiffly. 

‘I’m fine – who's this?’ 

She turned to the direction he was looking as if she forgot he was there. ‘Oh, this is Septon Enthor. He’s one of the favourites for High Septon.’ 

‘Ah.’ He didn’t believe she’d brought the balding man to him just for an introduction. He was, of course, interested in who would become the next High Septon but he knew Sansa, as a woman of the Old Gods, wouldn’t be. ‘It’s good to meet you.’ The priest nodded and bowed his head stoically. 

‘What is he here for?’ He asked as politely as he could. Sansa had been wearing a smile fixed on her face but it began to droop. 

‘I-I-’ 

‘Sansa?’ He lowered his voice. 

‘He’s agreed to perform an annulment... for us.’ She spat the words out quickly and breathed deeply in a kind of relief afterwards. 

His eyes darted between the two of them. His heart had slowed in his chest to nearly a murmur and he almost forgot to breathe. ‘An annulment? Is that you what want?’ 

_Of course_ _that’s what she wants, you fool._ He scorned himself. Why would a young, fair, Queen choose to remain with him? The marriage was forced for her too and an annulment would be the last string she had to cut to completely free herself from his family’s influence. 

‘Let’s not be fools.’ Her voice returned to its usual calm severity. ‘I am Queen of the North and you are King here, we cannot remain married. It isn’t fair to either of us. Kings and Queens need to marry, more so than Lords and Ladies. It is my duty to the North and will be yours to the South is Daenerys doesn’t-’ she trailed off. 

He nodded in solemn understanding. He couldn’t deny a word she said and no counter-points arose in his mind. Usually, he knew, this would be his chance to launch his witty retorts and convince her otherwise, but his wit had failed him. She couldn’t be argued with and no one knew it more than she did. Her eyes drowned in apologies and her mouth was twisted into dull frown. 

He released a huff of air through his nostrils. 

‘Okay, yes, you’re right.’ He looked towards the Septon who had thus far not said a word. ‘Go ahead, do what you must.’ 

_Do I regret it?_ He certainly didn’t hate Sansa as Jaime was suggesting. It was the sensible thing to do and, at her best, Sansa was the most sensible person he knew. Then again, he had half-hoped she’d turn to her father’s side and show that Stark stubbornness. She’d risked her life on several occasions because of it and it was strange sight to see her accept her fate as truth without a word of opposition. 

‘I didn’t want it.’ He replied quietly. ‘But she did, so what choice did I have?’ 

‘There it is.’ Jaime sat himself down with a soft thump on a cushioned seat. 

‘What have we become?’ 

Jaime said nothing but gazed at the windows behind Tyrion’s desk. He knew precisely what his brother was looking at. That was the same window Tommen had stepped out of on the day the Sept burnt down. _It is poor work, being a Lannister. I hope father is looking at us know, seeing what his line has become:_ _a_ _King and a knight living in the past._

_‘_ It will be good to see her again.’ Jaime interrupted his contemplative silence. 

A smile returned to Tyrion’s lips. ‘Do you mean Sansa or the Lady Knight you so _cruelly_ left.’ 

‘You are the cruel one,’ Jaime said, ‘it will be pleasant to see them both.’ 

‘As you say brother.’ He chuckled. He could not believe that Jaime had not at all thought about the prospect of Ser Brienne returning South after years of separation. He’d thought of it himself, for his brother’s sake, and his own. Jaime with Brienne was a different person altogether and Tyrion revelled in every opportunity he’d have to taunt them both. Jaime on his own was serious and oft resistant to his attempts at humour. He just hoped the Lady Knight hadn’t moved on to greater conquests. 

They both fell into a quiet lull, drenched in their own thoughts. His mind travelled leagues as he pictured the Northern party making its way towards White Harbour. He saw Sansa upon her horse, neck extended highly into the air, blue eyes fixed on the horizon. At her side Ser Brienne would be riding proudly, making small conversation but always alert and vigilant. He imagined the Greyjoy boy with her and, Arya Stark? In Sansa’s last letters she’s spoken of his sister travelling with the Baratheon bastard but he hadn’t heard of the she-wolf since. 

Sansa would board her ship and stand on the prow as he’d seen her do before. _What was she thinking of?_ He’d gaze at her as she looked across the unending crystal seas like she herself was the wooden figurehead guiding the ship. Her hair would catch on the wind and splay behind her in flowing fingers, pulling him in. 

_Will she be thinking of her betrothed?_ Most women would be missing their husband-to-be if separated for a great time. _But Sansa is not most women._

_Gods I hate her._


	2. The Strangers

The  _ Young Wolf _ docked in Blackwater Bay on a bright, spring morning. The sun was already rising high in the sky, blanketed by soft white clouds that floated lazily in the slight breeze. It was just as Sansa remembered, not as hot as the dunes of Dorne that left a man permanently covered in a sheen of sweat, but warm enough to warrant airy clothing and a skin of water or wine always at hand. At Winterfell, she’d begun a new dress, one fit for warmer weather, after she came to the discovery that everything she owned was fit for winter. The North may have been blessed with the cold but there were still days were the sun shone particularly brightly and ice wept. Now their trip south made lightly dresses an absolute necessity so she spent much of her time on board sewing and embroidering garments fit for a Queen. 

She chose one of her very favourite creations for that morning. Light grey, almost white, material hung loosely from her frame, dropping low down her chest and pulled together by strands of silvery rope. A silver belt decorated with  direwolves pulled the fabric tightly around her waist before it flowed out in layers of material that danced in the air as she walked. The sleeves were  similar to gowns she worn in King’s Landing as a child, long and wide and these were hemmed with a darker grey netting which weighed them down so they hung as she desired. 

Once she’d been tied into the dress, she fastened her  direwolf broach on one side of her chest and slipped a heavy necklace over her head. The stone, a great ruby, had been all that was left of Lady Melisandre after she sacrificed herself to see the prophecy of Azor  Ahai completed. Sansa had removed the thick gold band that held it in place and had it put on a silver chain that she found herself wearing often. The great jewel sat apart from the other stones and crystals she owned and it was difficult to resist  its allure. 

Her hair set loose about her shoulders but secured by a braid around the top of her head, she dropped her silver crown above her brow and nodded in satisfaction. If she was to recognised as a true Queen in these lands, she knew she had to appear like one.

With horses and carriages readied, she left the comforts of the cabin and made her way onto the city docks. With a smile to those who’s stopped their work to get a glimpse of her, she allowed herself to be helped in a litter where Theon was already seated within. Horses were an option and she wished to travel in person through the seats but her dress was not suited to riding so she had to settle for keeping the curtains open and watching the city pass from inside. 

As the litter pulled into action with a jolt, Sansa’s hands fell into her lap and began writhing. Her stomach had started to twist and she felt the heat  build up from her neck up to her cheeks. Theon noticed her discomfort. 

‘Nervous?’ He laid a hand softly upon hers in an attempt to keep them still. They persisted. 

‘Yes.’ 

‘Why?’ He took a glance out of her window. ‘You know everyone in there – and you know this city too.’ 

She nodded. He, of course, was right and she knew she was being completely irrational.  _ What do I have to fear in the Red Keep?  _ The monsters that once stalked its halls had been banished, she’d seen it done herself, and now only familiar faces would be there to welcome her. She would not be trapped or controlled or used for her name yet it still felt as if Joffrey was awaiting, leaning on his oversized throne. Above him his mother  stood, her green sharp eyes fixed ahead in a murderous stare. Sansa shook her head to spare herself from her unfounded fears but they remained at the back of her thoughts nevertheless. 

‘Is it because of Tyrion?’ 

The name sounded strange on Theon’s lips and she wondered what she’d done to lead him to believe that she would be nervous about seeing Tyrion.  _ I am looking forward to seeing him as an old friend, nothing more,  _ she reminded herself several times. 

‘Sansa?’

She realised she hadn’t replied and with that, she realised that, once more, Theon may have been right. She couldn’t fear Tyrion but neither could she deny the wash of nerves that tapped at her feet and wrung her stomach like someone had tied a rope around her middle. She thanked the Gods for the light fabric she’d gowned herself in as the heat continued to spread across her skin. 

‘I’m fine.’ She lied, turning her head pointedly away towards the window to  signify their conversation was over. Outside, the streets rolled by, doused in the morning sun and littered with men and women going about their usual business. Some stopped and stared after the Northern procession as it passed and some caught her eye but no one bent the knee or called her name as they did in the North. She almost preferred the quiet appreciation their stares emitted. 

They remained silent for the remainder of the journey up to the keep. The streets and people served as a fair distraction – she smiled to see them looking so clean and fresh. Markets overflowing with produce passed them by and she only saw people working and milling around, she saw no beggars or starving children. The plague, it seemed had been lifted. 

After the slight struggle of climbing the final hill to the Red Keep, the litter pulled to a stop and the sound of horse-hooves on cobbled stone ceased. 

‘I’ll come round.’ The door on Theon’s side was opened and he quickly dropped out. The trip around the litter took seconds but it stretched out into hours as she sat there, skirts gathered in her hands in preparation. Her heart thrummed so loudly in her chest all she could hear was its vibrations. Each breath she took was deep and grounding and she squeezed her eyes shut to pretend she was anywhere else.

The door on her side swung open and a hand extended towards her. She looked out into the bright courtyard of the keep and found her Hand’s eyes staring back at her with an encouraging smile. 

_ Time to become the Queen, leave Sansa behind for a while.  _

With a finally long exhale, she graciously took the offered hand and lowered a foot onto the floor, followed by the next. As the door closed back again, she moved her free hand to her eyes to shield them from the sudden burst of light from the sun overhead. She blinked through it and, eventually, the Red Keep made its appearance in its stone glory. 

The building presented itself to her in a fresh gleam as if it were brand-new. She knew barely a stone of the ancient towers or walls had been touched yet she did not recognise what she saw. The darkness that once shrouded the keep had lifted away, thawed like winter snow, and been replaced by a golden gilt shining back at her. She couldn’t help but smile. 

Theon and Brienne taking her sides but standing slightly behind, Sansa stepped forward, putting the carriages and horses behind them. Upon a set of steps, surrounded by men in their enamel white armour, she spotted their King. 

Tyrion Lannister drowned in the light, his tumbled hair like spun gold on his brow. As usual he was dressed in the crimson of his house and now office, a small lion embroidered at his breast and a metal one sitting at the nape of his neck. She recognised the broach as the twin to her own. Once, she’d bought it for him, a gift before they planned to leave King’s Landing, but when she refused to wear her own, he took the same oath. She’d kept the little lion safe, largely wearing it herself, and offered it back to him at his return. As they neared, she could just make out its emerald eye looking towards her that confirmed it was the one she remembered. 

At his side, not in white but in the same red and gold as his brother, Jaime Lannister regarded the oncoming Northerners with his usual cool expression.  Neither him nor Brienne at her side displayed anything other than the formal expectations of such a meeting. 

At once she felt a surge of foolishness. She’d dressed in her finest gown and jewels, spent hours worrying and was making the slow approach to meet with those she knew more than most. They were meeting as if they were strangers, as if they hadn’t fought side by side or huddled around war tables together, as if they hadn’t been married and kissed in the-

‘Queen Sansa.’ Tyrion bowed his head deeply as she reached the base of the steps he stood upon. 

‘Your Grace.’ She repeated the gesture, coldly. What warmth could there be in such signs of deference? So many urges invaded her mind but she resisted. 

_ I haven’t seen the man in 3 years and I’m to be wed to someone else.  _ She scorned herself like Catelyn Stark would.  _ The mighty wolf and the great lion meet each-other with respect but nothing more, what else did I expect? _

Tyrion awaited their arrival on top of the steps leading up into the keep. He was dressed in his finest, as was Jaime and the Kingsguard who surrounded them in their polished plate. He refused the offer to wear his crown. Jaime had dogged him about it when they walked the halls together but Tyrion had simply shrugged his shoulders. 

‘It’s Sansa, we don’t need all of that.’ 

The glint of a crown on her head was the first he saw of the Queen as she was helped from her letter. It was soon followed by her Tully red hair tumbling in front of her and her foot as she stepped out.  _ Shit.  _ He heard Jaime suppress a giggle from his side and had to resist the sudden urge to elbow his brother.

The litter door was closed and Sansa Stark stood a little distance away from him, her slender body covered in thin layers of grey material that flowed at her sleeves and around her long legs but clung tightly at her waist and chest. She was a vision of winter in the warmth of spring but she showed no signs of melting. Her fiery hair was longer than he recalled, reaching her hips, but its brightness was put to shame by the scarlet stone at her throat that drew all eyes. 

He quickly glanced upwards, not wanting to be accused of staring at her chest, and awaited her with a smile. 

_ I’ve been here before,  _ he considered _ , but before it was me approaching her, a Queen’s hand not a King.  _

His heart told him to step forward and embrace his once-wife as if no time had passed between them. They were not strangers and he found such formalities tiresome. Then again, she stood before him with the air of a Queen, not of the Sansa he knew, and his choice was made for him. 

They greeted each-other with their titles and bows and everything else he had dreaded about their meeting. He’d invited Sansa Stark but before him stood a foreign Queen who inhabited her body. She was ethereal as an apparition and just as unreachable. He knew he should be saying more but his tongue lost its bite as his mind wandered. 

‘Sansa!’ Their silence was shattered by the sound of leather boots slapping on stone and the call that came from an archway that led into the keep’s gardens. He watched on as the Queen’s head span around and her face brightened in recognition. 

‘Arya?’ 

The two sisters met in a firm embrace and he watched the Queen of the North slip away and Arya Stark’s sister take her place.  _ Never before have I been  _ _ more glad _ _ to see that she-wolf.  _

He watched on as they spoke in hushed, excited tones until they both turned back to him. 

‘Thank you for letting my sister stay with you.’ Sansa took Arya’s hand and squeezed it tight. 

‘It is my pleasure.’ He chuckled and with a wink, added, ‘to be honest, I don’t like the  _ Princess  _ would’ve given me a choice.’ 

The youngest Stark frowned. ‘I am not a princess.’ 

‘We’ll you are my heir.’ Sansa nudged her elbow and shot an apologetic look towards Tyrion. He waved his hand in dismissal. 

He clapped his hands together, ‘wine, anyone?’ 

‘When did you get here?’ Sansa took her sister’s arm as they were led inside. It had been almost two years since Arya had departed and this was the last place either expected to meet again. 

‘We just dropped by on the way North.’ She shrugged, ‘Tyrion told us you were coming so we decided to stay.’ 

From a corridor, Gendry Baratheon appeared and fell in line with them, taking Sansa’s other side. 

‘Your Grace,’ he bowed his head as he walked somewhat  awkwardly . Sansa just managed to stifle a giggle. ‘It’s good to see you again.’ 

‘And you,’ she said, ‘good to see you both safe and well. Have you been to Storm’s End yet?’ 

The Baratheon Lord dropped his gaze to the floor and shook his head. Sansa only sighed gently and took his arm. 

‘Well I’m sure you have plenty other tales to tell. That old keep can wait. You’ll be returning North with us?’ 

‘Yes,’ he glanced up, his tanned features tinged with a light flush, ‘Arya said it would be right to do it there.’ 

‘It?’ She turned back to her sister. Arya wore a smug grin and looked dead ahead. 

‘We’ve made you wait long  enough, I think. But you can’t make a fuss.’ 

When she took Arya’s meaning, Sansa stopped in her tracks. Brienne behind almost crashed into her. 

‘You’re going to be married?’ She spluttered out, hardly believing the words she was saying. The image of her sister out before the  weirwood in a fine dress was not one that came easily. 

‘Don’t make a fuss.’ Arya reminded her with a swift fist to the arm.

‘Fine, fine.’ She picked up her feet, keeping quiet but unable to control the wide smile on her face. 

‘Aren’t you to be married to?’ The smile soon dropped away. 

‘Hm?’ She replied as if she hadn’t heard. ‘Oh yes, that’s true.’ 

‘To some Knight of the Vale? A strange choice. What’d he do? Take your maidenhead?’

‘Arya!’ Sansa’s head whipped around to see if anyone they walked with was listening in. Luckily, only Brienne and Theon were close enough to hear. ‘No, that is far from the truth.’ 

Arya laughed briefly at the fluster she’d put the great Queen of the North into. ‘Then what is the truth? I always thought that you’d-’ 

‘I tell you later.’ She promised quickly, weary of the many ears surrounding them. ‘Can we please talk of something else?’ 

‘Here we are.’ Tyrion spoke up from the front of their group as they came to stop outside a row of doors. Sansa felt a surge of relief that her interrogation by Arya would be saved for another time. Tyrion went about his business, pointing at different doors and directing her men towards them. Two single rooms were  allotted for Brienne and Theon, as more distinguished visitors, and a wing of barracks had been saved for her Stark escort. She thanked him for the space. Before long the halls would fill up with anyone and everyone anxious to witness the  Kingsmoot . 

They reached the final door of the hall and Sansa realised she was quite alone. It had been some time since they’d been in each-other’s presence without anyone else to disturb them. She didn’t dare think back to what time it was. He opened the wooden door which led to a set of stairs into a chamber that sat above the other rooms. 

Inside, the room was filled with all number of fine decorations and strange memorabilia. Two short sofas met them first, illuminated by rays of warm sun and shadowed behind by a wall of books. She traced her fingers along the well-worn covers of the tomes and wondered if she’d have the chance to read any of them. Across from that, through an arched doorway, a bed surrounded by four posters and grey satin curtains took up most of the remaining space. Sansa didn’t think she’d ever seen a bed so large. The floor around it was laid with wolf furs and a table nearby had been set with carafes of different wines and a plate of fruits and cheese. 

‘Who’s was this?’ She looked out of the window which had a perfect view of the gardens of the Keep and the city beyond. 

He looked around and smiled awkwardly. ‘Cersei’s, for a time.’ She raised an eyebrow at that. ‘This is all new though, I couldn’t have her lingering around.’ 

It made sense to her that Cersei Lannister would wake each morning in such fine apartments. She imagined the woman, when she wasn’t officially Queen, standing out on the balcony in the early sun or languishing on the sofa in the evening, soaking in the moonlight. 

‘It is very beautiful.’ She spoke quietly. 

‘Say what you want about my sweet sister, she had great taste.’ 

A small smile broke from her lips, just to hear the light air in his voice did away with her worries about sleeping in the same room as the woman she had put to death. Tyrion was right, she had truly been scraped away from the keep, no ghosts of her would remain. 

Sansa reached up and set the heavy silver crown on a stand beside the bed. 

‘You are getting married?’ He chirped up abruptly, ‘congratulations.’

‘Thank you.’ She replied stiffly. She got the sense he did not mean his congratulations and she didn’t wish to accept them. ‘And you?’ 

She had not heard of the King Tyrion finding a wife or even courting but she knew him too well to doubt he would not be in pursuit of some fine woman. 

‘Alas, no.’

‘Don’t tell me you don’t have women falling at your feet, begging for marriage.’ 

‘There has been some of that.’ He smirked to himself. ‘But not one seriously wishes to marry a King who will lose his seat in a matter of years. They are waiting for whoever my successor will be.’ 

‘Well I hope it is some old man with more wrinkles than face then, just to see their faces.’ 

‘That would be a sight.’ 

She sat herself down on the bed, glad to feel it stable beneath her. 

‘I should go, I shall see you at dinner?’ He patted his breeches and took a step towards the door.

‘Of course.’ 

‘Alright.’ 

For a moment he stood stuck to the spot as if he had more to say but, thinking better of it, he turned on his heel and stepped through the arch and towards the stairs back down. 

‘It’s good to see you again, Tyrion.’ 

She heard his feet pause at the top of the stairs, followed by a mumble she couldn’t decipher. 

‘And you, Sansa.’ 

She heard the door at the bottom open and shut and found herself terribly alone. 

Ser Brienne spent some time in her own rooms. Her small luggage was brought to her and she took the chance to unpack her layers of clothes and stack them neatly away in drawers. The room she been given was directly below her Queen’s and beside the rest of the Northern party. Hearing no sound of movement from above, she laid herself out on her bed and gazed up at the crimson material of the canopy. It had been some years since she’d been a guest in the Keep, and before that a prisoner, but every room seemed the same to her. Each was decorated with accents of red and gold and many stacks of books she had little interest in where laid out in every corner. 

At least the city below them had changed. As they rode up the hill that led to the Keep, she scanned across the many streets they passed and found herself a foreigner in a strange land. She saw signs of destitution – poor children running in ruined sandals and old beggars searching for scraps, but it was nothing like she remembered. Years ago, the street urchins would’ve been running  barefoot and the old beggars would be rotting in an alley. Even the trespassing stink of shit had faded away to the general smell of life that she could forgive. 

As the morning wore on, she felt her stomach begin to growl at her in its hunger. She’d eaten briefly before they left but the nerves on ship were catching and she’d thrown much of what she had away. Now, having been spared from a great disaster , she felt her appetite return to her in a wave of need. She dropped from the bed, unstrapped some of her plate for comfort and left for the kitchens. 

She tried her best to watch where Tyrion was taking them the first time and followed the path that she knew would lead her to the main doors. Before she got that far, however, she twisted to the right and took to the more familiar corridors that were heavily trafficked and led towards the Great Hall and kitchens. 

There, she pilfered a bowl of stew with a hunk of bread and requested for more to be sent up to their rooms as a luncheon. The women were happy to oblige as soon as Sansa’s name was mentioned, and got to work preparing a light spread to keep them going till evening. She finished her food at the servant’s table and set off again in the direction she’d came.

Coming in a different direction, the path she’d found so easily before failed to materialise. Instead, she found herself caught up in dark twisting corridors where no one walked then, without warning, she was standing blinking in the gardens. She  span back round.  _ How did I stay here so long before and not remember my way around?  _ She cursed herself and resolved to ask the first person she saw how to get back. 

‘Lost, my Lady?’ 

Brienne was ready to correct the voice when she realised who had spoken. The deep tones hung in the warm air while she took them in. 

‘Ser Jaime.’ She said, quieter than she had hoped. She’d seen the man before, upon their arrival, but as soon as they moved, he’d stepped to the front to join his brother and she’d remained with her Queen nearer the back. They’d shared nothing more than the glance and it was as empty as that of two strangers. She’d expected to see him and had prepared herself since the day it was announced they’d be going south. 

_ ‘Are  _ you lost?’ He asked again, sidling beside her. ‘Because if you are, I would find that quite amusing.’ 

‘I am.’ She spoke carefully. ‘Could you tell me the way back to our rooms?’ 

‘I could, but it is my duty to take you there myself. It would be a blow to my honour if I let you go back alone and get lost again.’ 

_ Honour? He does not know the meaning of the word. _ She recalled the time he had told her to ‘fuck loyalty’. She never expected she would ever be on the receiving end. 

‘I am perfectly capable of getting back on my own.’ 

‘By all means, I won’t impose.’ He gestured back to the way she came with an innocent expression. She nodded to him and took her leave. 

‘Not that way.’ She’d moved to take a turn to the left. 

‘Which way then?’ She was growing exasperated and her voice didn’t hide it. 

‘I thought you could find your way back on your own?’ 

‘Jaime!’ She spat out. ‘Stop being a child. I have to go back to my Queen and don’t intend to spend my afternoon bickering with you instead.’ 

He held up both hands in surrender and she found her eye fixed on the one he’d lost for her sake. The golden hand he’d worn had been discarded and an iron gauntlet took its place.  _ Sapphires _ .

‘You like it?’ He’d seen where her eyes had drifted and smirked. ‘Look.’ He took hold of the metal and twisted hard. In the single movement, it came away from its holdings and revealed the line of a steel blade within. He gave it several practise swipes in the air in demonstration. 

‘I do.’ 

He replaced the iron hand and took several cautious steps between her. ‘May I walk with you?’

She looked around but eventually let her shoulders drop and sighed. ‘Fine.’ 

They walked alone in silence, Brienne focusing hard on the route he taking her on and burning it into her memory. They would be staying for several weeks in the keep and she refused to spend her time wandering corridors until she happened upon her destination. 

‘Are you well?’

‘Yes, you?’

‘I am.’ 

Their conversation didn’t go much further and she had no complaint. There was nothing she had to say to him. In a blink of an eye, they were back where she started, right outside her own door. 

‘Thank you, Ser.’ Brienne took hold of the handle to the door and turned her back towards him, waiting to hear him leave. Yet he persisted, standing right beside her and not daring to move an inch. ‘Jaime?’ 

‘Say something.’ His voice was low and nearly inaudible but she was not scared, she couldn’t be scared of him. 

‘What?’

‘You won’t say it but you must have something to say – do it.’ 

Brienne turned to face him, setting her face hard and rooting herself to the floor. ‘What do you want to hear from me?’ 

‘Berate me, shame me. Tell me I’m unworthy and that you hate me. At least ask me why.’ He hissed. 

‘Why would I say any of that? You made your choice and I respect. I am no some poor maiden who has been pining after you for three years.’ 

‘If you hate me, tell me.’ He took a step closer to her, she could smell leather and sword-oil. 

‘Why? Is that what Cersei did? Did she stand you there and throw insults at you into you caved and spewed apologies?’ Her breath caught in her throat. ‘She is dead and I am  _ not  _ her so if you would please let me-’ 

‘Then let me explain myself.’

‘No!’ She threw her fist against the door. ‘Just leave me be, that’s all I ask.’ She glanced up pitifully at his strained eyes and open mouth and shook her head. 

‘Bri-’ 

‘Don’t.’ She held up a finger to him and he fell back a step. 

‘Jaime!’ A bright voice called from across the corridor. She just had the chance to turn her head and wipe at her eyes before the wash of red hair and grey fabric bounded towards them. ‘I was just going to ask Ser Brienne on a walk, would you like to join us?’ 

Jaime took one last glance between the both of them and shook his head with his best smile. ‘Not today, your Grace, but another time. Enjoy the sun.’ He turned around smartly and walked quickly around a corner and out of sight. 

‘Are you alright?’ Sansa moved close to her Commander and took their hands together. Brienne brushed her off. 

‘Yes, of course but you should probably wait to walk, they’re bringing up food shortly.’ 

‘Ah, lovely.’ She chimed. ‘Come, sit with me.’ Her voice was uncommonly spritely and struck Brienne as odd. She let Sansa take her arm nonetheless and was led upstairs. When the door was closed behind them, Sansa turned around to face her, her light sweetness dropping away and her eyes dark and grave. 

‘What did he say?’ She demanded. Brienne still tried to avoid the question but her swirling blue eyes were convincing. ‘ Brienne, I like the man but I won’t have him-’

‘Nothing really. I just wanted him gone for the moment. I suppose you understand that.’ 

Sansa stared back at her with the expression of someone who did not understand. After several moments of discomfort, she waved her hands and looked towards the tray of cups to the side of her bed. 

‘I already wish we were back in the North but I can’t say I don’t look forward to seeing this moot. We must stay and put up with the  _ troubles  _ this place brings with it.  But, I know one sure way of staving off any awkward encounters -’ She ran back and took hold of a single goblet. ‘To the joys of wine.’ 

Brienne raised her hand to and allowed herself a laugh.  _ Of course _ , she thought to herself,  _ nothing could ever go wrong if we’re drinking wine.  _

_ Nothing at all.  _


	3. The Follies of Ale and Wine

Sansa Stark spent the next days like she never left Winterfell. She was on her feet for most of them, performing various duties, and only at the very height of night could she finally relax. As expected, the Keep and city was beginning to fill up with eager nobles from Westeros and beyond, piling in to see the moot and extorting the King for his hospitality. There were a few hopefuls too, those who intended to stake their claim in the crown when the time came. She spoke briefly with those, heard their reasons and dismissed most of them.  _ Over-ambitious Lords and Knights who were disappointed to know that their power only exists within their own hold.  _

Yet she knew there was one name on everyone’s lips that stood a chance and she dreaded the day of her arrival. 

‘Most of the Tyrell host is coming with them in preparation.’

‘She’s already had a crystal crown forged.’

‘Her brother calls her ‘your Grace’ around Highgarden.’ 

The rumours spread across the city in quick succession and Sansa found it impossible to avoid talk of the woman she wished never to see again. She knew, however, that sooner or later that day would come and she kept an eye on everyone who was welcomed into the Red Keep for the flowing gowns and brown curls of Margaery Tyrell. 

Nevertheless, she busied herself with other matters and did her very best to push all thoughts of the Rose of Highgarden out of her mind. When alone with friends, she avoided the subject altogether as if not talking about it would delay the inevitable. 

She spent her evenings in her chambers, mostly with Lady Brienne. They fell into old habits of speaking until the hours grew small and both were half-asleep. They spoke of a great many things, often with a cup or two of wine, and for an hour Sansa forgot where they were and why she was so worried. 

Several nights passed in this way and, though Sansa enjoyed her Commander’s company, their conversation was beginning to grow dull. The blade needed whetting but both knew that would require they spoke of the things that were truly on their mind. Brienne had been doing her very best to avoid confrontation with Jaime and Sansa had been doing the same with Tyrion. They sometimes laughed at what fools the two of them were but never delved into real discussion and, as they spent most the day together anyway, all other topics were beginning to run out. 

It was at dinner one day, four days from the moot, that Sansa made her resolution. She supped quietly on her meal, biting her tongue until it was needed. As the hall began to empty, she cleared her throat and addressed those seated at the dais alongside her. 

‘I have been in this city for four days and not yet have we all sat down and spoken in peace.’ She glanced towards Tyrion who sat resting his chin on his palm, his elbow leaning on the table. ‘You are all welcome in my rooms this evening – let us never forget the time we fought together as one.’ 

There were scattered sounds of agreement and she allowed herself a smile. 

‘Will there be wine?’ The King piped up in a faux serious tone. 

‘Enough to drown a village.’ 

‘That  _ should  _ be enough. There are some fine vintages in the cellar, I shall have them brought up – just in case.’ 

She nodded with a small chuckle and returned to her seat. No one around them showed opposition to her plan and she let herself revel in the mixed feeling of nerves and anticipation. It had been some time since they’d all sat in her chambers (at Winterfell) just for the sake of each-other's company. 

They soon filed out from the hall but Sansa separated from the group. The warmth of the Great Hall, combined with her excitement had left her feeling hot beneath her clothes. She peeled away in the direction of the gardens where the gentle breezes would soon soothe her skin. 

She was correct in her  assumptions, the late afternoon sun was warm but the air was cool and welcoming. She ambled through the gardens, passed flowerbed upon flowerbed, and let the fresh air fill her lungs and vacate any worries. She found herself a bench and swept her dress under her as she lowered herself down, closing her eyes as she took measured, gentle breaths. 

‘Sansa?’ 

When she opened her  eyes she wasn’t alone. Standing before her, brown waves tumbling perfectly across two bare shoulders, Margaery Tyrell stared back. She was a sight to behold, dressed in a green gown, trimmed with golden lace, that left nothing to the imagination. It clung gorgeously to the curve of the Tyrell woman’s breasts and hips and dropped low down her chest, revealing perfect tanned skin beneath. 

The heat returned to Sansa’s skin and her stomach twisted in discomfort. 

_ ‘Lady  _ Margaery.’ She stressed the woman’s title.  _ She is not a Queen yet. ‘ _ When did you arrive?’ 

‘An hour ago,’ she spoke  airly , ‘the King was at dinner so we didn’t bother him. I decided to come out here to shake off the aches of travel. You?’

‘Some days ago.’ 

‘It is good to see you again, Sansa. It pains me to think how we parted and that-’

‘Yes.’ Sansa replied simply. ‘I hope you are well.’ 

‘I am, you look well too.’ 

_ Gods this is horrible.  _

_ ‘ _ I should go,’ Sansa stood from her seat and made to leave, ‘I have guests.’ 

‘Ah,’ the Rose looked down at her hands clutched together. ‘I won’t keep you then. I will see you soon?’

‘At the moot.’ She said, she had no reason to see the woman beforehand. ‘You will be putting in a claim, I presume?’

Margaery looked upwards, ‘yes, I will.’ 

Sansa swallowed. ‘Well good luck to you.’ She didn’t mean it. 

‘Are you sure you cannot spare a few minutes? Let us walk here like we were children again. I’m sure you have plenty of stories to tell.’ Margaery’s smile was unwavering. 

‘No, I don’t think I can.’  _ We are not children again and I cannot pretend that nothing had passed between us. She may lie as easy as speak but I do not. ‘ _ Enjoy your stay.’ She bowed her head in leave and walked quickly back to the keep. 

Only when she was a fair distance away did she stop, trying to control her breathing. It hadn’t been half as terrible as she was expecting but simply the presence of Margaery Tyrell sent shivers through her and brought on waves of nausea. She had never been able to deal with betrayers well, her experience with Lord Walder Frey was proof, and to see one ascend to a throne – it sickened her. 

_ Gods, I need a drink.  _

Tyrion returned to his chambers and awaited nightfall in quiet anticipation. With each day, the moot grew closer and his nerves more wracked as he counted down the hours till the realm’s fate would be decided. Of course, he had hopes that a suitable ruler would be chosen, yet he couldn’t help but imagine a future with another tyrant on the throne and all their hard work unravelled. 

When the time came, he, leaving crown and signs of office behind, left his rooms and took the short journey across the keep towards the ‘northern’ wing where Sansa’s retinue had been placed. 

‘Princess Arya.’ The young Stark was just opening her door as he passed, her betrothed following behind. 

‘At what point do you realise that that joke is unfunny?’ She tilted her head and grinned. He only sent her a wink in reply and allowed the  future Baratheon lady to walk with him. 

They found the Northern Queen in her chambers where’s she’d accumulated more seats and tables which were strewn with small spreads of food and carafes of wine and ale. Sansa herself was seated closest to the window, goblet in hand, taking delicate sips and listening intently to the conversation held between Theon Greyjoy and Jaime. They seemed to be reminiscing, as far as he could tell, about some battle or another. On the other side of the room, Ser Brienne, looking strange without all her plate and mail, held a cup of ale in one hand, deep in thought. 

‘Arya!’ The Queen stood to greet her sister and Gendry with a sweep of her arm. She’d wrapped herself in a thin shawl over her gown with sleeves that caught in the air with every movement. Her hair sat loosely, un-braided, and, like him, she’d shed her crown and jewels. When her sister had been settled with a cup of her own and Gendry took up a jug of ale to pour, Sansa’s blue eyes fell upon him and crinkled in a smile. 

‘Tyrion.’ She handed him a cup and let him select his drink. As she poured, her hand perfectly still and controlled, he glanced upwards towards her. Her eyes were fixed on the cup and her face was held taut in focus at the job at hand. She lifted away the jug without a drop split and set it down across the table out of the way of stray elbows. He drank deeply from his cup, letting the sharp tang of the wine play on his tongue and down his throat, while she sat back down. 

‘We could almost be back in Winterfell.’ He mused aloud, scanning across the room. It had been some time since he’d seen everyone together, buried in their own conversations and forgetting about the world without. 

‘That was the idea.’ Her tone gave away her pride and relief. ‘The halls there have felt a little empty since everyone left. It’s good to be around friends again.’ 

‘Hardship makes bedfellows of us all.’ He looked around the room and pointed to where his brother and the Greyjoy boy were sitting. ‘Years ago, they fought against each-other at Whispering Wood, now they’re drinking together in King’s Landing.’ 

‘Arya and Gendry would never have met if it weren’t for the war. Gendry may never have known who his father was.’ She looked down at her cup, ‘though sometimes I think he may have preferred the life of a simple smith to the one he has ended up with.’ 

‘I don’t blame him for that- I'm certainly glad he’s the one marrying your sister and not I. No offence of course.’ 

‘Oh, none taken.’ She leaned over and refilled her cup with the same concentration across her features. It was such an amusing sight to behold. She took a large sip and sat backwards in her seat. 

‘I saw Lady Margaery in the gardens, did you know she’d arrived?’ She swilled her cup absentmindedly. 

‘No, I didn’t know.’ He thought over his words carefully. ‘Did you speak?’ 

‘Not much, I have nothing to say to her.’

‘They say she’s a contender for the crown.’ He spoke quietly. 

Tyrion didn’t know what had happened between Sansa and her Lady Hand but reports told him their separation was wrought in anger and betrayal. The Lady Margaery had returned home to Highgarden, he supposed, while Sansa had quickly placed Theon at her side. He could see it in her eyes that the wounds of whatever transpired were yet to fully heal and the meeting that day had left her seething. 

‘If she is, we’re all doomed. Daenerys may have almost burnt the city down but I’d rather her than Margaery any day. She serves only herself but thinks because the people loved her once that she’s destined to wear a crown.’ 

Margaery Tyrell was ambitious; he had no doubt of that from first sight. It was clear the plan had always been for the Tyrell army to come to the city’s aid at Blackwater and for the daughter of Mace Tyrell to be married as a reward. She arrived with her pretty escort of Reach-women and her waves and smiles for the masses as if she was already on the throne. She made light work of placing herself in the social-circles of court and was soon a name in everyone’s mouth. Behind her sweetness was a poison, that Cersei found out swiftly and with it came an intense dislike for her new daughter-to-be.  _ Would Cersei be proud or angered to see the two women she hated at odds? _ He couldn’t be sure. 

‘Cersei was always worried that girl had her sights on the crown – it seems she was right.’ 

Sansa chuckled into her cup at the thought of the great Lioness being right all along but not able to enjoy the feeling. Abruptly, her eyes flicked upwards and she lowered her voice. 

‘You never considered putting your name forward? The city would be grateful and-’

‘No, three years is enough for me.’ Tyrion looked briefly across the room to avoid her eye. 

‘What will you do? Return to  Casterly Rock or- or something else?’ She persisted. 

He understood what she was thinking but had to bite his tongue to avoid reminding her that they were two very different people. For Sansa, her home in the North had called out to her even in the darkest moments. Winterfell kept her going through Joffrey and Cersei and every beating.  Casterly Rock never had the same appeal. He was glad to get away from it most times, glad to put his childhood days spent there far behind him. The Rock held some welcome memories he couldn’t deny but also a great share of ones he sought to forget. He’d once begged his father to be finally named Lord of that infernal keep, with Jaime sworn as a knight and Cersei a Queen, and the rebuttal was a sharp pain in the gut. Now that it was truly his to seize, it felt more like a duty than a prize. 

_ It will bring me no joy.  _

_ ‘ _ I don’t know.’ He admitted plainly, to himself as well as her. Silently she nodded her head, as if she had guessed that answer all along, and took another sip of her drink. 

‘Do not think about the future this evening,’ she stood from her chair with a smile, ‘tonight, we live in the past.’ 

Ser Brienne of Tarth had chosen to spend the night drinking slowly and engaging in light conversation where possible. She liked Sansa’s idea of getting them together as if no time had passed since the days at Winterfell but she found she couldn’t forget what had happened since. Those days were a faraway dream that she found impossible to immerse herself in once more. 

‘Brienne, come sit with us!’ The Princess Arya grabbed at her hand and dragged her up from her seat by the hearth and further into the room. In the Queen’s bedchamber, a group were seated on cushions on the floor, speaking in hushed voices between bursts of laughter. 

‘What are you doing?’ She regarded the group with hesitation. It seemed they were playing some kind of game. Her stomach twisted at the memory of the last time she’d been involved in such a thing.

They were in Winterfell, a few nights after the dead had been finally vanquished. They’d spent all their days since clearing the courtyard and halls and restoring the keep and Brienne was beginning to feel the aching in her muscles that told her she required a break. Her answer had come that night when Tormund Giantsbane, the strange wildling man who’s crazed eyes were always fixed on her and Jaime Lannister seated themselves beside her in the Great Hall. It didn’t take long for them to be joined by two more, Tyrion Lannister and the translator Missandei who joined the forgettable conversation. 

She had to admit she’d indulged her appetite that night, in terms of ale. Usually, remembering her duties, she stopped at one cup and drank sweet tea if she was thirsty. Tonight, in company and seeing her Queen retire to her chambers early, she allowed herself a second and somehow, a second became a third and a third a  fourth \- until she lost count. 

Tyrion had proposed a game of guessing that they discovered he was remarkably adept at. They fell into giggles as they tried to divine strange facts about one another. The next thing she remembered she was walking from the table, at some speed, shouts calling out from behind her. Someone had said something she didn’t like and she’d taken her leave with haste. 

Then he’d been there in her rooms, his soft green eyes searching hers, apologising for words he hadn’t spoken. Then there came his arms and his lips and – everything else. The wished to hold onto that night forever but it was a tarnished memory.  _ How could I smile to remember that moment when all it was  _ _ was _ _ him taking me off guard?  _

She shook away the memory. Jaime wasn’t even in the group seated on the floor, he remained in the other room speaking with his brother.  _ He cannot stop me from enjoying myself, I won’t let him.  _ She sat herself down on a vacant cushion and let the weary haze of the past drop away. When they offered her more ale, she took it and when they told her she had to drink, she did. Soon Jaime Lannister faded away completely and she was just Brienne of Tarth once more. 

‘You smile a lot at her for a man who’s supposed to hate her.’ Jaime spoke into his drink. 

‘I don’t hate her.’ Tyrion hissed in reply, his eyes flitting towards the topic of their conversation who had joined a circle seated on the floor. ‘I’m allowed to be nice.’ 

Jaime followed his brother’s gaze and laughed. ‘One could almost say that you were-’

‘A good host.’ Tyrion interrupted with a slight frown. ‘Isn’t that enough?’ 

Jaime Lannister shrugged his shoulders and searched around the room. A great amount of ale and wine was already missing from the carafes and the group on the floor were the main culprits. The Stark princess and her Baratheon betrothed were falling into each-other,  Missandei of  Narth couldn’t stop laughing and even the Stark Queen herself appeared to have been taken by the haze of drink. She swayed slightly as she sat and spoke louder than necessary. He couldn’t  speak, however, he hadn’t stopped himself from refilling his cup but he supposed Sansa Stark was less used to the effects than he was. Tyrion drank with ease, as if he was drinking tea, but even he was beginning to show the signs of slowing down. He forgot his words and his eyes wandered mid-sentence as if he forgot he was talking at all. 

A shuffle of feet and a few raised voices from the other room caught his attention and he peered inside. He was confronted by the figure of Brienne who’s searching eyes locked onto his, darker and more venomous than he’d ever seen. 

‘Brienne?’ He cautiously lifted his hand to steady her but she shook him off. 

‘Don’t fucking touch me.’ 

He held both hands up and opened his mouth to speak. 

‘I hate you Jaime Lannister!’ She spat out, rendering everyone else completely silent. He felt his stomach drop into his gut and his face paled. ‘You’re a fucking monster, just like they say and you won’t leave me alone.’ 

He glanced towards Tyrion who shook his head in his own disbelief, then to Arya Stark who now stood behind the great woman, also looking none-the-wiser. 

‘We can speak outside if you wish?’ He offered calmly. 

‘No! There is nothing you can say. You’re a horrible man and a monster and you and Cersei Lannister deserved eachother.’ 

His paleness was overtaken by heat as he rose to his feet. He felt his hand ball into a fist. 

‘Brienne, perhaps we should take you to bed?’ Arya reached a hand forward and laid it on her arm, Brienne shook her off too. 

‘No. He should go. He doesn’t deserve to sit with us and drink with us like nothing happened.’ There were tears and fury in her eyes. 

‘Jaime is a friend. I know he hurt you but he saved my life.’ Sansa was the next one to speak, taking her sister’s place. Brienne, even in her state, knew better than to throw off her Queen but shook her head dismissively instead. 

‘Just because you’re still in love with Tyrion doesn’t mean it’s the same for me!’

‘I-’ The Queen in the North was speechless. She fell back a step, her eyes wide and her face a sickly pallor. Beside him, Jaime caught his brother take on the same hue. 

_ Gods I can’t take this. _

Jaime stood from his seat and faced her. He felt an urge to take her hands to calm her down but everything he’d seen told her there was no point. 

‘I’m sorry. I’m not proud and I certainly didn’t want to see you like this.’

In a blink he saw the hand raised and in another it had come down upon his face with a sharp sting. When the feeling of numbness faded, he felt the burning of his cheek as if it had caught aflame. 

_ ‘ _ I deserved that.’ 

‘You think this is some joke. You think this is a game and it doesn’t matter what you say or do because you’re the Jaime Lannister and no one could ever touch you. I liked you better when you truly did have shit for honour. At least you were honest.’ 

With a lingering poisonous look, she left, her feet thundering down the stairs and a door downstairs closing heavily. 

The room fell into silence and no one dared moved. Jaime raised his iron hand against his searing cheek but the cool metal made no difference. He cursed under his breath and fell heavily into his seat. Without word, the Northern Queen passed him a full cup of ale and shot him a sorrowful glance. 

‘Would you like me to go down?’ She asked quietly. 

‘No, leave her be. She’s not wrong, there’s nothing to argue.’ He drained his cup with a grumble and sat as far back in the chair he could. The concerned Queen pulled away and looked at the space behind him where Tyrion still sat. 

‘It’s late, perhaps we should leave you be, your Grace.’  Missandei of  Narth offered in her sweet voice with a small waver. 

‘No.’ Arya stood in front of the door. ‘My sister wanted us to enjoy the night, and we shall. Another drink!’ It was less of an exclamation and more of a demand. Gendry got to work quickly, filling cups around the room. Jaime looked down into the murky liquid in his goblet and sighed heavily. 

‘We drink!’ He called out, raising his cup.  _ Until we forget it all,  _ he added to himself. 

‘So, drink if the other person gets it right and they drink it they’re wrong.’ Tyrion pointed his finger around the circle to make sure everyone, in their slight haze, understood. They’d claimed the circle of cushions on the floor and  Missandei had suggested they play another game. Arya and Gendry had taken themselves to bed leaving him with Sansa, his Lady Hand, Jaime and Theon Greyjoy. 

‘We play this one  every time . Why is it always this one?’ Jaime grumbled. He was yet to perk up after his lady-knight put him in his place. 

‘Because I am very good at this one.’ He smiled smugly. ‘Who wants to start?’ 

‘I will,’ Theon raised his cup to get their attention. ‘ Missandei , you still think Daenerys will come back.’ 

The girl from  Narth nodded meekly and drank a mouthful

‘Jaime, you stayed South because you were afraid to be with Brienne.’  Missandei asked. 

‘Drink.’ Jaime replied coldly. 

‘Tyrion, you’re terrified about who will be King.’ 

Tyrion smirked. ‘I mean yes, I’m shitting myself but that one’s obvious.’ He drank nonetheless. 

‘Let me see,’ he scanned the room. ‘Sansa you’ve secretly missed it here in the South.’ 

She glared at him through her lashes. ‘Drink.’ 

‘Okay, alright. You find the Northern court incredibly boring.’ He lingered dramatically over the last word. 

She held her head up high and shook it. ‘Nope. Drink.’ 

‘Y-you’re glad to see your sister.’ 

‘Obviously I am. I won’t drink to that.’ 

‘Fine.’ He sighed, wracking his brain. There was one thing that had been lingering there that he hadn’t had the courage to ask. Now, in its addled state, his mind told him it was the perfect time.

‘You don’t want to marry Harrold.’

The room was quiet anyway but he felt a hush descend upon it. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened and closed as if to say something in refute. Eventually, she seemed to make up her mind. 

She drank. 

‘What?’  Missandei tilted her head. ‘You are a Queen; why would you marry a man you don’t like?’ 

‘For the North,’ said Sansa glumly. When that answer didn’t seem enough for her audience, the Stark Queen pulled herself up on her knees and sighed. ‘You really want to know?’ 

_ More than anything. _

He didn’t say a word but she took their curious gazes for agreement. 

‘I met Harrold when I took a trip to the Vale. I was meeting with my cousin Robin. We were just coming out of Winter and I knew that trade would be our biggest source of money for some time while the harvest grew. I thought he might like to arrange something more favourable. He introduced me to his heir, Ser Harrold, one afternoon. I didn’t think much of it but I asked of him and Robin just about burst.’ She took a sip of her wine and continued. 

‘When Littlefinger was at the Eeyrie, he made a promise to Harrold that he’d arrange a marriage between us. He told him it was all but sorted. Unfortunately, Lord Baelish didn’t get the chance after Arya slit his throat. Robin told me the knight was horrified and gravely disappointed. I suggested he come to Winterfell for a time. I’d had plenty of suitors and he could join them. Robin agreed, and we made trade arrangements too so everyone was content. It took less than a week for me to discover I could never marry him. There’s nothing outwardly wrong with him – he’s kind, comely and well-bred but he’s just-just-’

‘The most boring person I have ever met.’ Theon finished for her. 

‘Exactly. He spoke of the same things endlessly and had nothing to say to me but talk about the weather. The only thing he’s ever really spoken of is the Vale and he droned on incessantly for hours about it. I knew I couldn’t reject him immediately or it’d upset Robin so I held off a few weeks and waited for the right time.’

‘And somehow you agreed to marriage in that time?’ Jaime had brightened at the strange story. 

‘No, that’s the point. I never agreed to anything. I was in court one day and people started congratulating me and asking all sorts of questions. Harrold went and told everyone we were to be wed without ever asking me. Now I don’t know if he did this for some malicious purpose or I said something to lead him in the wrong direction but I knew I couldn’t refute him and embarrass him. If he does have some foul intentions, me rejecting him will probably only fuel him and he’ll do something even worse whilst spoiling the trade with the Vale which has been doing so well. If I said something to him to make him think I’d marry him then it’s my duty to go through with it. And-and well it’s all a mess.’ 

In silence she looked around the room, faces stared back at her. They held this position for several seconds before  Missandei was the first to break. They descended into laughter, Sansa joining it too, and Tyrion could help but share their mirth. 

They continued their game for a few more rounds after they settled down but eventually, the hours growing small, their group fell away with yawns and excuses. Jaime was the last to make his farewells, citing a need for a deep sleep that he hoped would last forever. Tyrion told his brother he looked forward to the day and he left with a smile at least. 

‘So, you really hate ‘Harry the Heir’ then?’ He started, finding himself alone with Sansa who had moved up to her bed. He pushed himself up and sat on the edge, a safe distance from her. 

‘You won’t drop it?’ She asked in mock anger. ‘I don’t hate him but – but Gods he is the very worst.’ She fell back on the furs in laughter. 

‘What will you do then?’ He shuffled slightly closer. 

‘What will I do? Gods know. But-’ she turned to the side, propping herself up on her elbow, ‘you never really answered my question earlier. What are you going to do?’ 

‘Gods know.’ He replied, matching her tone. 

‘Don’t give me that.’ She loosened a pillow and sent it towards his head. He managed to hold up her hands to deflect it. ‘I know what you really want. Who’s that writer you used to tell me about – Long-Long something. Anyway, you were always talking about those wonders you wanted to see. How many have you seen?’

Tyrion counted quickly in his head. He knew the book she was referring to. He’d read Wonders Made by Man by Lomas  Longstrider several times and each time ignited in him a need to travel and see them all. His trip through Essos and towards  Meereen had crossed a few off his list but she was right, there were others he hadn’t seen. 

‘Three out of the nine, The Wall, the Valyrian Roads and the long bridge of Volantis.’ 

‘Well there’s still six for you to see. Why not see them? You’ll be free to do as you wish. You have wealth and time and you can write about them if you wish. I’d see them too if I could – if the North would allow me to disappear like Arya for several years. I’m sure she’s seen a few in her travels.’ 

Her bright expression faded away to melancholy. He saw the dreams in her eyes that could only be that. His three years as King was nothing to the lifetime she’d sworn to. He shuffled up to the other side of the bed next to her; she didn’t appear to be bothered. 

‘The North matters to you more than anything.’ 

‘Drink.’ She murmured.

He turned and met her eyes. Their blue never appeared so bright as by the dwindling candlelight and her pale skin had taken on a blush at her cheeks that gave her away. The words on his tongue failed him completely and his whole body was struck numb in its place on her bed. In his stillness, he became painfully away of how close they were. He felt the bed beneath him shift as she moved but he didn’t register what was happened until he blinked and she was sat on her knees directly in front of him. 

Everything had been moving so unbearably slow but in an instant life struck him across the face as her hungry lips met his. His eyes drifted shut as her hands took hold of his hair and his own rested against her waist. She moved against him with an intensity he hadn’t expected but he didn’t fail to match her speed with his own, placing his spare hand on the back of her neck and pulling her in closer. It was messy and desperate and nothing like the kiss they’d shared on the stairs to her rooms. That had been brief and sweet, tinged by their own fear of what was to come. Now there were no dead men waiting to pull them to pieces and nothing to throw them together as if it was their last night in the world. 

He let his lips drift to the corner of her mouth and begin trailing small kisses along her jaw then down to her neck where he lingered for a while. He hit a particular spot and she let a breath of a moan that sent a shudder through him. His cock twitched in his breeches and his mind began to wonder. He saw her fire-red hair swirling around her bare shoulders as she laid out for him on the furs, bare and writhing at his touch. He heard her moans and her call his name out to the world like she was his. 

_ But she’s not.  _

_ ‘ _ Stop.’ He pulled away from her, his heart hammering in his chest as he looked over her slightly  dishevelled frame. ‘We can’t. It’s not what you want.’ He reached up and brushed his thumb against her cheek. 

She took hold of his hand and squeezed it. ‘It is what I want.’ 

‘No, Sansa. It’s not.’ 

He dropped down from the bed and brushed his crumpled breeches down. His eyes could not help themselves but remain fixed on her as she looked back in confusion. She clutched at her shawl and brought it tightly around herself. 

‘I don’t understand. What did I do?’ He could see the beginnings of tears in her eyes. 

_ Curse you, you fool.  _

_ ‘ _ Nothing,’ he sighed passing out of her chambers with a final lingering look. He could taste her on his tongue and it was divine. ‘Goodnight Sansa.’

‘Goodnight.’ She choked out from behind him. He forced himself not to look again. 

He passed through the rest of her room and down the stairs as quickly as his legs would allow him and made his way to his own rooms without realising. Once inside, slightly out of breath, he finally stopped and searched his face in a mirror. 

He wanted to celebrate. He’d heard it from her own lips that Sansa didn’t love the man she was due to marry and, chances are, wouldn’t marry him at all. Then she’d kissed him and it had felt like nothing else in the world existed. There was no North or South, no Daenerys, no  Kingsmoot and no choices to be made. 

_ I should be jumping for joy.  _

But he wasn’t. He lazily stripped himself and fell down flat upon his bed, staring upwards. He couldn’t stay angry for ever, no one could, yet the fury he felt every time he looked at the Northern Queen was yet to leave him. Even when he’d been so close to forgetting, it had fallen on him again like an anchor grounding a ship. The elation was replaced by blame and with that came the bitterness. It was the same bitterness that had invaded most of his life and still refused to let him enjoy anything. 

She was his, if he wanted, and that only made him hate it all so much more. It burned within him but he could never find the right words to string together. He could never really ask her the questions he wanted to. 

_ Gods, I love her. _


	4. The Error

_Shit, fuck, bastard, shit._

Sansa wasn’t sure she’d felt more pain than that which she woke up with that morning. _My head hurt less when I was concussed._ She groaned as she forced herself up and even more when she looked down at still-fully clothed self. 

‘Your Grace?’ 

Sansa quickly remembered what had woken her up. She’d heard her name call on the wind of her dreams, but it was not in the voice of the servant girl standing before her, tray in hand. 

‘Hmm?’ She brushed a hand through knotted hair in an attempt to look passable. 

‘The King sent this for you.’ She presented the tray to the young Queen. Sansa took a look over it. Her stomach growled as her eyes fell upon slices of bread fried in thick grease with a side of chewy bacon. There was a cup of honey tea, still steaming and a note secured beneath it. 

‘Thank you, could you please draw me a bath?’ She rubbed a hand against her aching temples. The girl set the tray down and nodded enthusiastically. A great metal tub was brought into the room and she watched the girl dart in and out as she filled it with water from smaller basins. She let her teeth seek into the greasy food as she waited, not bothering as drips slipped down her chin. Whatever spices had been added to the tea smelled like a world she didn’t recognise and settled her twisting stomach. 

‘All ready, your Grace.’ 

With thanks, Sansa chanced getting to her feet, which was less painful that she expected, and took herself to the tub to soak herself. Just before she stripped away her clothes, she spotted the white letter sitting on the wooden tray, her own name delicately penned in familiar handwriting on the top. She took it and set it down beside her while she de-robed and lowed herself into the scolding water. She hadn’t bothered to wait and hissed as the heat enveloped her but she made no effort to move. The maid had dropped oils into the water and she picked out the fresh scents of citrus that were always her favourite. She wondered if it was pure chance that the girl had chosen those perfumes or in another had intervened. 

Shaking her wet hands off, she picked up the letter and opened it, careful not to drop it and ruin the carefully placed ink. 

‘ _Sansa-’_

It all came back to her. She nearly threw the paper across the room. 

When she’d woken, the night before had seemed a harmless memory. She knew she’d drunk with friends and somehow had elected not to change her clothes before retiring to bed. With just a few strokes of Tyrion’s quill, she remembered it all. She remembered Brienne shouting and storming out. She remembered telling her tale of Harry the Heir during one of their drinking games. She remembered kissing Tyrion and having him leave her alone, colder than Winterfell. She saw it again behind her eyes like she was watching another’s life. At first it didn’t hit her that these were her own memories. 

She dunked her head under the bath water and held herself there for some seconds until she needed to crash back up for air. The memories were not washed away and neither was the foreign feeling she was just beginning to place. She could still feel where a hand had rested at her waist and then another at the back of her neck. She scrubbed both areas until her skin came up an angry flush of pink but the sensation persisted. 

She cursed aloud and allowed herself a small scream. Her headache fell into insignificance as her mind reeled over the night before. 

She turned back to the letter in her hands but found, in her sudden shock, it had taken a dip in the water with her and the fresh ink was running down the page like rain on a window. She squinted and tried her best to decipher what it had said but it was no good. She swore again. 

She washed herself in silence, her mind whirring, and when dry, slipped on a gown and pulled her own hair up in a simple knot. She wasn’t thinking hard about what she was wearing or how she looked. She glanced quickly in the mirror to ensure her appearance didn’t give anyway the mess of her head and, satisfied, she dropped her feet into simple sandals and took herself downstairs. 

‘Ser Jaime?’ The knight stood at the base of her stairs, leaning against a wall and staring at the floor. He barely looked up as she stepped out into the corridor. 

‘Queen.’ He regarded her disinterestedly. 

Sansa cast a curious glance between Tyrion’s brother and the door he was facing. It didn’t take long for her to piece together his intentions. 

‘She won’t see you?’ 

‘The horrible monster that she wishes dead? No, she won’t.’ His voice was deeper than usual. 

Sansa sighed and raised a fist to knock at her Commander’s door. At first there was no reply but Sansa was in no mood to be rejected- again. 

‘Brienne?’ She spoke to the door. At her voice she heard a shuffling of feet and the door came away. 

‘Sansa?’ The great knight appeared at a slit in the door. Her eyes fell briefly on the spot behind her where Jaime stood and Sansa watched the colour drop from her cheeks. 

‘May I come in?’ She asked as sweetly as she could. ‘Just me.’ 

‘Y-yes of course.’ 

Brienne of Tarth stood upright before her like an officer waiting for inspection. Her blonde hair sat unruly on her head and her eyes betrayed her discomfort. Otherwise, Sansa’s sworn sword looked no different than most days, dressed in her usual light armour and strapped with her crimson blade. 

‘I must apologise, my Queen. I had a little too much ale and -’ 

‘There’s no need to apologise.’ Sansa traipsed across the room. She glanced outside at the morning sun, casting its warm rays on the city. She clasped her hands together and turned to face her close friend. ‘No one thinks of you any differently for having emotions. Sometimes it takes a little drink for them to come out. Sometimes that’s what’s best.’ It was hard for her not to think of her own experience the night before. She vowed to stay away from wine for the foreseeable future. 

‘You’re sure?’ Brienne fidgeted in her spot. 

‘Certain, and if anyone decides to say anything – you can show them your steel, if you like.’ Sansa shot her a smirk but it didn’t last. ‘I think you should speak to Jaime. I think it would be best.’ 

‘I have made a fool of myself to him.’ The great Lady fell down heavily on a seat with an exasperated huff. 

‘Why, then, is he waiting outside to speak with you?’ Sansa stepped forward and looked down towards her. ‘You were honest and I think he appreciates that.’ 

‘Perhaps he just wants an apology.’ She replied glumly. 

‘And you will not give him one. He is in the wrong, is he not?’ Sansa felt her stomach tighten at her own words. Something about them sent a flush of nausea through her that she was certain had nothing to do with the drink. _I am convincing her, or myself?_ It was a question, so she knew she wouldn’t be caught in a lie, but she still felt Brienne’s cautious eyes on her and she suddenly felt like a fly trapped in a spider’s web. 

Eventually, Brienne nodded and Sansa released a glad breath. She took hold of her Commander’s hands and briefly squeezed them. 

‘I’ll send him in.’ 

Tyrion tapped at the cold arm of the throne absentmindedly. He’d already sat through an hour of petitioners and welcomed countless guests to the keep but he could not recall a single face he’d seen or many of the issues he’d seen resolved. His mind was elsewhere. Only the hard iron beneath his buttocks tied him to the present. 

‘The Lady Margaery of House Tyrell.’ 

The Herald’s words went straight over his head. He waved his hand to beckon the newcomer to stand before him and allow Missandei to make the introductions. 

‘Lord King.’ The buttery voice of the Rose of Highgarden called out to him from the floor. He had to resist shaking his head to wake himself from his doze. He sat himself better up on the throne and met the twinkling hazel eyes of the young Tyrell. As usual, he spotted a gaggle of Reachwomen in their finery watching on, accompanied by a group of green and gold clad guards. 

‘Lady Margaery.’ He beamed, ‘it’s been too long. How is Highgarden?’ 

‘Spring is truly its best season.’ She matched his light tone. ‘You are, of course, welcome to come see for yourself.’ 

_When the crown is no longer yours,_ he added for himself. 

‘Well you are welcome here in the meantime. I hope our meagre gardens will be enough for you and your company.’ He opened up his arms and she nodded her head in response, returning to her ladies. Bar the slight show of age, she had barely changed. She still walked with her head held high and her shoulders drawn elegantly back so that all eyes fell upon her. The Rose knew how to perfectly entrance men and women without a word. Her dresses were revealing but still modest, her hair was lain without fault and her eyes twinkled with a secret she would never tell. He was not sure whether he admired or despised her – ambition was a dangerous thing and Margaery Tyrell was overflowing. 

When the rest of the introductions were finished, Tyrion stretched himself out and spoke quietly to a young page standing nearby. The girl nodded her head and sped away into the crowds. Minutes later, she returned and behind her, with her unfazed smile, the Lady Margaery herself. 

‘It’s good to see you again.’ She began as he took them away from the rest of the court, through the back door that lead into the council chambers. ‘It’s been too long, as you said.’ 

He noted how she’d called him king in public but now omitted the title. 

‘Aye, you’ve come for the moot? I’ve heard nothing but your name for some time now.’ He led her outside. 

‘Yes. I’ve come to make my claim but just to see the moment itself is enough.’ 

_A great lie. She’s here to become Queen, she could care less about the historical significance._ _Maesters_ _will write paragraphs on the days to come – all she wants is to be heavily featured._

_‘_ Well, I wish you good luck. I cannot say it wouldn’t be thrilling to see a Tyrell on the throne after all the work my family did at preventing such a thing. I’d like to see Cersei’s face.’ He waited for her to laugh but her expression did not change. 

‘I’m not here to spite Cersei Lannister. I intend to be a good Queen; benevolent and loved.’ Her eyes were briefly distracted by a patch of purple orchids. 

‘Yes, of course.’ They walked on in steady silence. ‘Sansa says you spoke with her yesterday evening-’ He didn’t know where he was leading her. 

‘Ah, yes. It is good to see her again.’ 

_Another lie._

_‘_ A pity you are not by her side. The two of you made a formidable team.’ Now he knew where he was heading with his questioning. He had been dying to know what had transpired between the Queen and her Hand but Sansa had never showed signs of being willing to tell. 

‘It is.’ 

He cursed to himself. Did both women have to be so polite as it not reveal their deep secrets to him? 

‘Were you looking to find out what happened?’ She’d found herself a white lattice bench and sat herself down. She looked up through her thick lashes and patted the seat beside her. She wore a knowing smile and he could do nothing but obey. 

‘I have been curious.’ _I am desperate._

_‘_ Fine, judge me as you wish. It’s not a pleasant tale.’ 

Sansa Stark looked out of the window and watched the light dusting of snow as it fell gently upon the stones of the ramparts. For an entire month it had snowed so hard that they’d hardly been able to leave the keep but now it showed signs of letting up. A black feathered raven had flown into the maester’s tower that morning. Winter was drawing to a final close. 

It had only been a year. So many had spoken of the Long Winter that would follow the longest summer that she’d started to believe it. It hadn’t been an easy year but their stores had lasted and the cold had only taken the very weakest in the villages. 

Light footsteps behind her distracted her from her day-dreaming. She turned to find her Lady Hand behind her, a light blue cape swept around her shoulders and a soft glow on her cheeks. In her hands she held a letter sealed with red wax. 

‘Margaery.’ Sansa grinned. It amused her to see the Southern girl still bundled up against the cold. She’d come down with a terrible fever at the height of the frost and had remained under furs in bed for several weeks. Sansa was just glad to see her on her feet and performing her duties once more. ‘Is that for me?’ 

‘Yes.’ She spoke simply, holding out the letter. ‘From Tyrion, I think.’ 

By the lion pressed into the wax, Sansa was certain she was right. She took the letter with a nod of thanks and began breaking the seal where the words she longed to see were waiting. She could feel eyes on her and she looked up. Margaery stared towards her with a strange darkness in her expression. 

‘Are you alright? You look unwell.’ She feared her Hand would come down with illness once more. She’d hoped the new season would bring restoration to the keep. 

‘I’m fine.’ Margaery’s words were curt and lacked their usual sweetness. 

Sansa dropped her hands to her side and narrowed her eyes. ‘You disapprove?’ Margaery said nothing. ‘If there’s something you mean to say, say it.’ 

‘There is nothing to disapprove of. It is not my business who writes to you.’ 

‘But you have an opinion. You do not like me speaking with Tyrion? You may read it if you like; we only write of the North and the South.’ 

Margaery’s face betrayed nothing. ‘I thought when you said we would be separate from the South-’ 

‘I meant it.’ Sansa’s glanced hardened on the woman before her. She could tell there was something she was eager to say but she was trying to get at it from a strange direction. ‘Tyrion and I remain friends. Do you have an issue with that?’ 

‘You are more than friends though, aren’t you?’ The Rose smirked a little, covering her accusation with the appearance of some jest. Sansa was not laughing. 

‘Say what you mean, Margaery. I take no joy in these games.’ Sansa craned her neck around to look back out of the window. She had nothing to look at there but she wanted to appear disinterested. 

‘You speak so frequently with the man you put on a throne. It takes no fool to guess how he got there.’ 

Sansa’s head shot back so hard she feared she would regret in on the morrow. A sharp jolt of heat seared behind her eyes when they met the still calm demeanour of Margaery. For a moment her words caught in her throat as she pieced together what had been said. 

Sansa recalled the moment she’d suggested Tyrion should sit upon the throne until Daenerys return or until three years were up. No one had spoken out in opposition but she had caught Margaery’s coolly dismissive expression. Her Hand made it clear she did not approve but it was never spoken of. _Now she comes to me with these accusations. Have they been brewing this whole year?_

_‘_ You’re suggesting he is only King because I said so? I gave my reasons in King’s Landing and gave those assembled ample chance to speak their peace. No man said a word and, as far as I know, there has been no whisper of rebellion since. Tyrion has been doing a fine job, what problem do you have with him?’ 

Margaery took a breath, looking around the room with her carefree eyes. ‘Only that there may have been someone better that was looked over because of your infatuation.’ She said it so calmly but for Sansa, that only made it colder. She spoke as if she did not care for a word. 

‘And who, may I ask, would you suggest would have been more suited?’ 

‘Myself.’ 

The single word dropped in the air like a boulder. It shattered into a thousand pieces as it hit the ground, each tiny shard exploding outwards and some cutting and scratching at her. Margaery stood before her with her soft, unassuming expression that rarely changed, but Sansa felt every emotion at once. The one she hadn’t expected which erupted from her first, was amusement. 

She laughed, loudly and obnoxiously at the idea of Margaery putting herself forward to be Queen. _This is some joke._ She could think of nothing else. No other explanation fit the sudden change in her Hand’s opinion and the strange way of sharing such views. 

‘This is no joke. I have been Queen before. You know the people loved me. I know how King’s Landing works. Tyrion is a Lannister – the very people we sought to remove.’ 

Sansa’s laughter faded out. There was no humourous inflection in Margaery’s words- she was completely serious. Sansa blinked several times. 

‘You would seek out that throne, in that place, after all we have been through?’ Sansa took a step forward, holding her hands together to avoid lashing out. ‘It is a corrupt place, a place of hate and betrayal and death. There is no place for us there. Do you not remember? I had work so hard just to get you out.’ 

‘And I appreciate that.’ Margaery also took a step forward, closing the distance between them. ‘But you know it’s different now. I do have a claim, I could do right by the South. You know it as I do. Please, Sansa.’ 

Sansa shook her head and held up her hands defensively. She tasted blood on her tongue and bile in her throat. Margaery did not look the same. Her face was twisting and contorting into something familiar, something that wasn’t her old friend but someone much worse. 

‘You are becoming your grandmother.’ She spat out. She could nearly see Lady Olenna Tyrell materialise before her – the Queen of Thorns with her poisonous smile. 

‘That old hag? I hated her.’ Margaery responded with a nervous laugh. 

‘All you want is a throne. Even if that throne is not worth the iron its forged from. You saw the horrors of that city and still go back. I thought you were better than that.’ 

‘Sansa, don’t be dramatic. I’m nothing like my Grandmother.’ 

‘But you are conniving and ambitious beyond your station. Your claim to the throne is based off of a marriage years ago to a dead King – the same King you helped me kill. If you should be on the throne because of that- should I not be Queen of the south beside Tyrion? We were married once, too.’ 

Margaery went to respond but Sansa took a step forward and cut her off, pointing an accusatory finger. 

‘Have I not given you enough here? You are my Hand, my second. You have my ear and constant access. Is that not enough? Can you not simply be grateful for all you have before you reach out for more? What have the Tyrell’s done that allows you to have any more?’ 

Margaery’s sweetness dripped away like melted chocolate. Behind the perfect mask, a cruel curtness took its place. Every word had a bite and every look was pure venom. 

‘If it weren’t for us, your men would’ve died outside the walls of King’s Landing. You sit on this throne and Tyrion on his because of my family. If you remember when the Lannisters did the same for the Baratheon’s-’ 

‘They were compensated rigorously. I know my history well.’ 

‘Then I deserve something, surely?’ 

Sansa let out a small laugh. She’d held onto her criticism of the Tyrell’s involvement in the South for some time, biting her tongue for the sake of her friend. She tried to ignore the ill-feeling the thought gave her but now she felt no reservations bringing it up. 

‘Did you truly save the day? Would you say that to the thousands of men already dead by the time your brother arrived? Your father had been dead near a year and the ride from Highgarden to King’s Landing is a short one, yet your brother arrived only when he could turn it around, only when his host could ‘save’ the day. You did the same at Blackwater – did you not? How are you any different to Walder Frey, arriving only when the victorious side was decided? The Tyrell’s fight when they can steal glory and reap the rewards whilst other men must die honourably. You deserve nothing.’ 

‘You’ve thought long and hard about this?’ 

‘No, a fool could see past your family’s kindnesses. With Lady Olenna at its head, who would be surprised to see you all go down a path of selfish desire? But in truth your claim is nothing, I’m afraid. No coward like you could possibly be a Queen.’ 

Sansa watched Margaery’s eyes as they processed all that had been said. They flashed in anger and embarrassment then finally in resolution. 

‘I will go when Tyrion’s three years are up and stake my claim.’ She regained part of her composure. 

‘You would leave me for a crown?’ Sansa could not hide the emotion in her words. She held her own and kept her voice calm and controlled but she couldn’t help but let the fury balled in her chest drip through. She bordered on desperate. She had made her point, listed every reason why Margaery was in the wrong yet her heart was still set on leaving. ‘Being my Hand is just one step closer to the Iron Throne, isn’t it?’ 

Margaery didn’t say a word. Her eyes had clouded over and her neck was inclined downwards. 

‘If all I have given to you means so little, leave this place. You will be replaced, easily.’ 

‘Sansa, let me-’ 

‘Leave.’ She choked back a sob and took a deep breath. ‘You have everything you could want here and you are knowingly throwing it away. I thought we were friends but now I know you have used me. Leave Winterfell as soon as you can and pray I never see you again.’ The tears that had welled in her eyes fell freely down her face but Sansa didn’t care. Her hand travelled down to the dagger strapped to her side and did not break her challenging stare. 

‘You’ll see you are wrong. But I will forgive you.’ Margaery moved to step forward and reached a hand to cup Sansa’s face. The knife was on her in an instant, less than an inch from her stomach. 

‘Leave.’ Sansa hissed, tightening her grip on the hilt. Margaery took a step away and reached to her chest. She pulled at the broach on her cape, the sign of her office, and threw it to the floor with a metallic clatter. Her brown eyes stood out on her pale face as they looked the Queen up and down with an air of pity. 

The Rose of Highgarden shook her head and swept from the room and out of Sansa’s life. Alone, Sansa reached down to retrieve the discarded pin, carved intricately in the shape of the ancient weirwood beyond the city, and held it close against her. She found herself looking out of the window once more and did not move from that position until she saw the lone rider gallop hastily away and disappear down the King’s Road. 

_May we never meet again._

The Queen of the North was turning the corner back towards their lodgings when she heard the shouting. After leaving Sers Jaime and Brienne alone, she’d taken herself to get some air and clear out her lungs and mind. She hoped the memories of the night before would catch on the wind but they hadn’t drowned in bathwater and they certainly wouldn’t fly away. Her mind would not stop wondering what secrets were held in Tyrion’s letter she’d unthinkingly destroyed. She’d only seen her own name written in his careful, clear script before she dunked the parchment and ruined the ink. She could not manage the prospect of asking him what it had said and was just beginning to settle with the prospect of never knowing. 

It was as she turned the corner that she started to hear the shouting. As she circled round, it grew closer and she spotted Theon Greyjoy ahead, waiting in the corridor standing close to Brienne’s door. 

‘What’s happening?’ She whispered as she too stopped outside. Theon regarded her briefly but kept his attention on listening in. 

‘They’ve been arguing for hours. I couldn’t hear well enough from my chamber.’ 

She dismissed Theon’s sudden eagerness to eavesdrop. ‘What are they arguing about?’ She found herself leaning closer to get a better chance at catching a word or phrase. 

‘Everything in the world.’ He sighed heavily. ‘I haven’t been able to piece together what started it and I can’t find any sense it what they’re saying. It’s been relentless though.’ 

‘Gods! Excuse me.’ Sansa took hold of the door handle and forced herself inside. Beyond, she found Jaime and Brienne standing at opposite ends of the room, still mid-argument. Brienne’s hands were raised in an exclamation and Jaime was shaking his head deliriously. She looked between them both, neither noticing her and felt the life drain from her. She coughed and the room fell silent. 

‘My Queen?’ 

‘Your Grace?’ 

They stopped and stared towards her, Jaime’s mouth still hanging open mid-retort. Sansa put herself between the two of them and held up her hands in defence. 

‘What have you been speaking about?’ She asked as innocently as she could but it was impossible to mask the real question on her tongue. 

‘Ser Brienne was taking pains to explain my own decisions to me.’ Jaime huffed, keeping a false smile on his features. 

‘And Ser Jaime is not taking a thing seriously. He remains ever a child-’ 

‘And you are _too_ serious. It is the most infuriating-’ 

‘At least I understand the gravity of-’ 

‘Most incredulous, most irritating-’ 

‘Stop it!’ Sansa called out but her voice was drowned by theirs. She tried again. ‘Stop it!’ She used the voice she saved for unruly Lords and over-ambitious knights she needed to put in their place. It succeeded with them too. 

‘Sansa, I’m sorry-’ 

‘No, you’re not.’ Sansa sighed heavily and looked between them. In her head she saw the two of them at Winterfell, savouring every second together, brushing off Tyrion’s mockery and slipping away to each-other’s chambers in the middle of the night. _How has that become such bickering and hatred? ‘_ You have to stop torturing each other.’ Her voice was tinged with a note of desperation. 

‘I am not torturing anyone, just speaking the truth.’ Brienne pulled herself up. ‘It is the ser here who cannot accept it and is torturing me.’ 

Sansa’s eyes flicked over to the accused party whose green eyes had darkened. He met hers in great sorrow and she felt her own heart long to fix whatever had broken between the two of them. 

‘The truth isn’t the truth just because you say it is. And do not forget it was you who began this all. I have been nothing but honest.’ 

‘Honest?’ Brienne breathed. ‘Honesty is not in your nature. If you refuse to admit it then-’ 

‘I won’t admit what isn’t true, that wouldn’t be _honest_ -’ 

‘Well, if you only-’ 

_Gods save me._

_‘_ Brienne, Jaime’s right!’ 

Sansa couldn’t know exactly what they were arguing about but she could guess its focus. Jaime had never joined them North when he promised he would and Brienne had not forgiven him for the slight. Except, she knew her anger was misplaced. 

‘How could he be?’ Brienne turned on her with a dismissive shake of the head. ‘I know you favour him but you don’t have to lie for his sake.’ 

‘I told him to stay here.’ 

Her words hung in the air like a bad smell. She felt them spread into every crevice and permeate the furniture. They made every breath she took feel thick and heavy and rendered Brienne of Tarth shock still. 

‘Is that true?’ Her voice was quiet, trembling slightly. She turned to Jaime who gravely nodded. The great knight turned back to her Queen, her mouth slightly open. 

‘I thought Daenerys would return. You saw what she almost did. I couldn’t trust that if she returned, she could be trusted.’ Sansa tried a step forwards but Brienne backed away. ‘I needed someone who I _could_ trust. There’s no one else in all of Westeros who I knew would do what was required. I needed a King-slayer.’ 

‘I made the choice. Nobody thought she wouldn’t come back.’ Jaime addressed them both but Brienne’s eyes were fixed on Sansa’s. 

‘You didn’t tell me?’ 

‘Because I knew you’d disagree. I had to do what was best for everyone. I never meant to hurt you- you know I love you like a sister and-’ 

Brienne exhaled sharply. ‘Very good. You are the Queen. It is not my place to question you.’ 

‘Brienne, please. A day hasn’t gone by when I didn’t wish I could tell you. I just needed you by my side. The North needed you and, and I thought the South needed Jaime.’ 

‘I understand completely.’ The Commander of the Queensguard held her face as stoically as a marble statue. Her eyes had turned to ice and her skin took on an unhealthy pale wash. Her cold look froze all who gazed upon it and Sansa and Jaime watched helplessly as she sped out of the room, head high and shoulders drawn up. 

‘I don’t think that was a good idea.’ Jaime Lannister pulled in beside Sansa. The colour had drained from his features as well. 

‘No, but it had to be done. It’s my burden, not yours. Let her take it out on me.’ 

‘Brother, Sansa?’ 

They both turned to the doorway that Brienne had left from. In her place, gazing inside, Tyrion Lannister stood, his brow furrowed in confusion. 

‘Tyrion?’ Her voice sounded meek, prey not predator. Part of her had hoped she’d never see him again and she could put the night before neatly away. Yet, events never failed to draw them together and she realised herhopes were foolish. Even if she didn’t magically manage to avoid the King of the keep she was lodging inside, she could never hide from the vision of him that dwelled in her mind. 

‘You finally told her?’ He turned to his brother. Jaime nodded his head with a heavy sigh. ‘And I’m guessing she didn’t take it well?’ 

‘Who knows how she took it? She’s too proud to say what’s on her mind.’ Sansa huffed, dropping down into a deep cushioned seat. Jaime lingered where he stood and Tyrion closed the door behind himself. 

The three of them remained in their positions in silence. Sansa felt no discomfort around the Lannister brothers and did not feel the common urge to say something to do away with an awkward silence. Jaime had once called her a kind of family and, while she’d doubted it at the time, she felt the welcome familiarity as they each processed what they had seen on their own. 

Only one thought danced in Sansa’s mind- the dreadful fear that her closest companion would never look at her the same way again. She knew she’d wronged Ser Brienne yet she still hoped that her friend would find it in herself to forgive her. Otherwise she saw a future of quiet seething and repressed formality that brought bile to her throat once more. _Margaery has already left me, I cannot cope with being alone._

Jaime was the first to move. His eyes had wandered to the window and, seeing the light of afternoon dropping away, he remembered some duty or another and made his excuses. Sansa and Tyrion saw him off with a murmur and soon returned to their own thoughts. 

‘I should go upstairs and prepare for dinner.’ Sansa stood abruptly and righted her skirts. ‘I don’t think Brienne will appreciate me being here when she returns.’ 

‘Hungry?’ He raised an eyebrow towards her as she started towards the door. She shook her head and let out a weak laugh. 

‘Not at all.’ 

‘Me neither.’ 

She looked the Lion up and down. She doubted her cruelty towards Brienne had much effect on his appetite. ‘That’s rare.’ 

‘I spoke to Lady Margaery today.’ 

‘Oh.’ 

‘Yes.’ 

She could feel his eyes on her, watching for her reaction. She knew her smile had fallen away but she doubted she could lose any _more_ colour from her cheeks. 

‘She told me what happened between you.’ Tyrion continued softly. She’d left Brienne’s rooms and had reached the door to her own. 

‘Gods, what poison did she drip in your ears?’ Sansa could only imagine the story her once-friend would weave in Tyrion’s ear to gain favour or pity. 

‘None at all.’ She caught the sincerity in her voice. ‘In fact, after hearing from her, I fear her becoming Queen even more.’ 

‘We both have a lot to look forward too.’ She cocked an eyebrow and took hold of the doorknob. She paused as she stood there. A thought had come to her mind and while half of her found no fault in the idea, another half screamed at her not to such so foolish. She went with her instinct. 

‘If you’re not planning on eating this evening, you can join me. Just to sit, of course. I believe we both need the company.’ 

‘Agreed.’ He smiled without a thought. ‘I shall be honoured.’ He dropped low in a mocking bow and followed her obediently up the stairs. 

‘If Margaery becomes Queen, what will you do?’ Tyrion Lannister sat by the fire in the Queen in the North’s chambers. The light had almost completely dropped away outside but he felt no compulsion to sleep. His head was far too busy. 

‘I honestly don’t know.’ She was sat next to him, thick furs draped over her shoulders and eyes fixed ahead at the dancing flames. He watched the orange flicker across her pale skin. ‘Every time I think about it, I’m sure I’m going to vomit.’ 

‘Perhaps I will travel. To get away, I mean.’ He pushed himself back into the seat. 

‘And I will never come South again.’ She spoke with mock resolution. 

He laughed gently, ‘probably best.’ 

They sat in comfort, soaking in the warmth. For just a moment, the rest of the world felt far away and when Sansa’s head dropped down tentatively on his shoulder, he let it happen. 

_Fuck._

_‘_ Oh.’ She sat up at once and, for a second, Tyrion panicked that he’d cursed aloud. ‘I never had the chance to read your letter. I dropped it in bathwater.’ 

Quickly pushing the thought of Sansa in a bath from his head, the words he’d penned that morning ran across his eyes. _Am I_ _glad that she didn’t read them?_

_‘_ What did it say?’ She continued when he didn’t reply. 

He met her eyes, so searching and bright, and found himself unable to say the words. He now wandered if he even meant the words when he’d written. That morning it had seemed the best thing to do but now, he felt a surge of doubt and relief. 

She fell back against his shoulder and closed her eyes. 

‘If it’s terrible and cruel, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.’ 

He said nothing. He felt her inhale sharply against him and release the breath shakily. 

_Fuck_ _fuck_ _._


	5. The Worst Liar in Westeros

Sansa had spent most of her life sleeping alone. She enjoyed spreading out under the furs, waking looking a mess with no one to care and falling asleep with a book in hand, candle burnt down. She’d spent some time sleeping in the same bed as Tyrion but she never considered that as sleeping together. A great wall existed between the two of them and both knew to keep to their own sides of the bed. Often, he would not even join her and she’d awake to find her poor husband asleep on a seat. She thought nothing of the time in her bed at Winterfell. Her chambers were her own; the only place she could truly strip off her masks and become just Sansa once more. She never thought badly about sleeping alone- she rather enjoyed it. She’d never found herself wishing for someone to warm her covers. 

Until now. 

Sansa awoke under several layers of furs. At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary but when she blinked her eyes into full focus, she found she was where she expected. Her bed sat across the room, vacant since the previous night, and she’d slept on a sofa. She recalled sitting by the firelight with Tyrion and realised she must have fallen asleep. She felt a pang in her chest when she found she was alone. 

Tyrion had spent the night with her once in Winterfell, she remembered now. It was the night before the dead came and they both found sleep reluctant to be caught. Instead they’d sat together, as with the night before, and fallen asleep there. When she’d awoken that time, he’d still been there in the morning, to her surprise. 

_ Why not this time? _

For the second morning in a row, Sansa found herself undressing from the clothes of the day before. She chose a peach dress for the day, as she found the sun looking particularly strong, and slipped her feet into soft leather sandals once more. The material of the gown was so light and fine, it was almost as if she were covered in spider silk. A maid-servant came to her aid with braiding her hair around her head like a crown, letting some remain loose and took away her discarded clothes as she went. 

Sansa liked to speak with those that attended on her but today she’d been silent. Her mind was fixed on something that refused to shift like a carriage stuck in marshland. Nothing could move it and she knew there was only one way of ridding herself of the thought.  _ I have to ask Tyrion about the letter.  _

He’d told her the night before, in saying nothing at all, that the contents of the page he’d written her were not kind. She guessed they were words of firm rejection, begging her to leave him be and return North with none of the hopes or dreams that she might now possess. 

_ I must know what it said.  _ It wasn’t a matter of knowing what he meant by the words, she could put that together easily enough, but she had to read them for herself or she knew her heart would forever be unsettled. The night before shouldn’t have happened, the drunken kiss shouldn’t have happened and, by reading the letter, nothing could possibly happen again. 

‘Arya!’ The youngest Stark girl was found by her sister in the keep training yard, practicing swinging and stabbing with a spear. The shaft itself was taller than Arya but it didn’t seem to get in her way. Sansa watched for some time before intervening as she danced across the cobblestones on nimble, sure feet. 

‘Come to spar?’ Arya cocked an eyebrow. 

Sansa crossed her arms across her chest. ‘Very funny. I come for advice.’ 

Arya left her spear in the rack, rubbing her hands together. She narrowed her eyes toward her sister. ‘And what does the mighty Queen of the North need to know from me?’ 

Sansa gently hit at Arya’s arm before taking it in her own. She walked her across the yard and upwards onto the ramparts. The ramparts at the Red Keep were much longer than those of Winterfell and she soon found them a spot alone, looking out across the city toward the  dragonpit sitting on its hill. 

‘What is it then? Something to do with Brienne?’ 

Sansa turned on her sister. ‘What do you know about that?’ 

‘What  _ don’t  _ I know. These walls have ears I’m afraid.’ She returned her gaze innocently towards the horizon. 

‘No, it’s not about that.’ Sansa didn’t have the head to tackle that problem as well. She hadn’t the courage to speak with her Commander yet, let alone smooth over any cracks. She took a breath. ‘It’s about Tyrion.’ 

‘Ha!’ Arya exclaimed, a large grin taking over her features. For a moment she looked just like a child again –Arya Horseface, with her flaming nostrils and large teeth. ‘I knew it!’ 

‘You don’t  _ know  _ a thing, sister.’ Sansa cautioned her. She was keen on keeping at least a part of her personal business to herself. 

‘You’re still in love with him and he’s still in love with you and you both need to get your head out of your arses and just fuck already.’

‘Arya!’ Sansa’s head shot around to check no one was in earshot. Once again, her fist met her sister’s arm.  _ I hope that one bruises.  _

_ ‘ _ Am I wrong? Don’t tell me you look at him with doe-eyes every waking moment out of pure  _ respect _ ?’

‘I do respect the King.’ She held herself upwards, not giving Arya’s fanciful mind the satisfaction of seeing her blush. ‘But I do not love him and I’m sure he doesn’t love me.’ 

‘Gods, you truly are the worst liar in the realm,’ she chuckled. ‘Go on then, what advice do you want?’ 

Sansa paused.  _ What did I want again? What can I hope to get from Arya, the girl who found her partner twice and has barely spent a moment apart from him?  _

Arya noted her hesitation and smiled more softly. She took her sister’s arm and spun her round so they faced  each other . 

‘Here’s my advice- apologise to the man. Get down on your bloody knees till they’re raw and grovel till your voice is hoarse. Pray to the Gods that he’ll forgive you.’ At first Sansa took Arya’s words as mockery but her eyes were stern and she felt at once like their mother was standing in front of her, giving her a lecture.  _ Apologise to your brother, Sansa, it’s not nice to make fun.  _

_ ‘ _ You think he’s upset with me?’ She dropped her voice low. ‘Why would he be?’

Arya shook her head and sighed dramatically. ‘Where has my wise sister gone? You left him here Sansa and went off to remarry and have all you ever dreamed of. He got a crown he did not  want, in a city he loathes without either of the Queens he supports. That and he lost you too.’ 

Sansa listened in silence. She had not thought of Tyrion’s position so bleakly. She thought he took his crown as an honour, as a chance to do good. She never considered that he might want it less than she did.  _ Arya is wrong though. He did not lose me. He agreed with me that the annulment was best - I would never have done it if he didn’t want to.  _

‘If you do not love him, tell the poor man so. If you do love him-’

‘Beg him till my knees are raw and grovel till my voice is hoarse.’ 

Arya nodded. ‘Exactly. And if he still won’t forgive you, I’ll let him get  acquainted with Catspaw.’ She enthusiastically tapped the Valyrian steel dagger at her waist. Sansa laughed the threat off, hoping and praying that it wasn’t serious but never quite certain. 

She left Arya to her afternoon of activity and made her way back into the keep. Her stomach groaned for food but she ignored it.  _ I cannot eat with so much on my mind. I cannot put it off much longer. It has to be now.  _

Brienne had retreated late to her chambers and was glad to find them finally empty. She slept early without eating and awoke with the sun already high in the sky. Despite inward groans, she rose without complaint and dressed herself in her light plate for the day. By the time she was ready though, she found the Queen’s quarters vacant and the rest of the halls quiet. It was strange not to be called upon as usual but she couldn’t deny she was glad for the omission. She could understand perfectly why Sansa hadn’t knocked on her door that morning. 

The day before had been a strange one. She awoke with a thundering head and memories dripping in regret. Her hand still seemed to burn from where it had struck across Jaime Lannister’s cheek. After speaking with Sansa though, she’d felt good enough to meet with him and try and find peace. But it was impossible. They could not find common ground no matter how hard she tried. He seemed intent on opposing everything she offered and she was certain he found sadistic joy in her aggravation. Then her Queen had returned and brought the roof down with her. Brienne had barely had a singular thought since the realisation that she’d wrongly set herself against Jaime. To know her own Queen had worked against her was a sure blow just beneath the ribs and it still ached the next morning even as she tried her best to forget it all. 

The problem was that she found herself angry at Sansa even though she agreed with what she’d done.  _ It is not my place to question a queen’s decisions that favour the Kingdom she rules. It would be selfish for me to put myself before the whole North. Jaime only did what he was bid and Sansa only did what she though was best – what is there to  _ _ fuel _ _ my fury?  _ The fury came nonetheless. 

Now without a role to fulfil, Brienne found herself wandering. The halls were more familiar now but ever as unwelcoming. Even without her Queen to protect, her guard was always up, her hand never far from her sword belt and her eyes darting around each corner. She knew precisely where her feet were taking her, though she didn’t admit it to herself, and tried her best not to think about anything else. The truth Sansa delivered may have darkened the young Queen in Brienne’s eye but it also served to lighten another. That was the reason Sansa had finally spoken and Brienne did not wish to let that go unappreciated. Jaime was owed an apology, and though she was not fond of giving them, she knew when to cave when it was due. 

‘Brienne?’ His tone was lighter than it had been the day before. She could almost feel the wall between them break away. He stood in the Lord Commander’s chambers, which he still occupied, arranging an array of weapons. 

‘You’re putting them away?’ She raised an eyebrow to his machinations. One by one he wrapped each piece of steel and iron into cloth and piled them up on a leather bag. She didn’t know he still harboured so many blades. 

‘Packing.’ He spoke simply, continuing with his work. When she looked around, she noticed the swords were not the only things he’d been moving. Cabinet drawers sat upon, displaying their empty contents. 

‘You’re leaving the city? Where to?’ 

‘Gods know. But whoever sits on that throne, I won’t be welcome here much longer.’ He set the leather bag aside with a slight clatter and faced her. There was a trace of pain on his face. 

‘You won’t be  Kingslayer -in-waiting anyone?’ Her attempt at humour was not missed and she felt a twinge of joy to see a slight smile lighten his dark expression. 

‘No-’ His voice trailed off and she watched something pass over his eyes. He seemed almost regretful to be putting that part of his past behind him.  _ Who is Jaime Lannister if not the man who killed his King?  _

She coughed to break the quiet that fell upon them and took a reluctant step forward. ‘I came to apologise.’ She began, sounding sure of herself. ‘I made an assumption and let it cloud my judgement of you. I was unnecessarily cruel and you did not deserve that.’ She hated how formal she sounded but she knew no other way to broach the subject. 

‘You were cruel for good reason.’ He chuckled gently to himself, ‘despite what Sansa says, I still deserved it.’ 

‘ No, you don’t,’ she took another step closer. ‘You were simply following orders, being selfless.’ 

He turned fully to her, wiping down his hands on his breeches. ‘I don’t mean about that. I mean about-’ he  gestured towards her with his iron hand. 

‘Oh.’ She just grasped his meaning. ‘You have not been  cruel to me.’ 

He shook his head. ‘I think I have. Cersei remained a plague on my mind even when I was thousands of leagues from her. I treated you like shit because I thought that was what was best.’ 

She didn’t think he’d treated her so badly, not that she had the best examples to compare him to, but she didn’t move to contradict him. ‘She’s gone now, your sister. You killed her.’ 

‘And I’ve had three long years to let that sink in.’ His eyes had found the floor but he suddenly looked up. ‘Did I ever tell you how it was you who made me see Cersei for what she truly was.’

Brienne shot him a quizzical look. ‘No, I don’t think you did.’ 

He drew closer to her, taking one of her hands. ‘Well in truth, it was the hand. The bloody hand I lost for your damned sake. She could barely look at the stump and forced me to wear that horrible gold thing. It took a while but when I’d got used to not having a hand, I thought of it like a trophy. It had been the cost of saving your modesty and I couldn’t see what was wrong with that. She scorned me for having some honour and I realised it was her who stripped me of it in the first place, not King Aerys.’ 

‘You left a Queen for a lost hand?’ She couldn’t resist smiling at the absurdity. 

‘I left her for a ‘wench-savior’.’

‘And you killed her for the sake of a thousand, thousand wenches out there’ She nodded her head towards the window. He followed her gaze and grinned. 

‘Aye, but now I act with for the sake of just one.’ 

Brienne took a step back. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Another foolish knight has just declared himself for me. You’re too late.’ 

Jaime dropped his hands and furrowed his brow in a look of confusion as he tried to figure her out. ‘You’re not serious?’ 

‘ Of course bloody not!’ 

Brienne of Tarth was not one for great displays of affection and she knew Jaime wasn’t either but her heart pounded in her chest so loudly, she was sure it drowned out all rationality. Her eyes were only for his and her mind could only think of him. She moved quickly to sit within his arms, feeling her whole frame relax at the lightest of touches. 

‘Come North with us?’ She murmured. 

‘I might just freeze to death.’ He smiled. She slapped at his shoulder. 

‘Good. Then I won’t have to suffer your complaining.’ 

‘You wound me.’ He responded quickly, pulling her closer into his chest. He felt heat flare at every point at which their bodies met. 

‘Good.’ She whispered again, barely a breath before his lips met hers, softly. Brienne of Tarth’s eyes fluttered shut. 

_ Another letter should fix this.  _ Tyrion sat at at his desk and stared down at a blank piece of paper. A quill hung in his hands, the ink on its tip already dry.  _ Gods this shouldn’t be so hard.  _ Words were his speciality yet now they failed him, just as he decided he needed them most. In his head they overflowed but each time he tried to pen  them, the pages ended up a crumpled mess on the floor. Now he couldn’t get so far as to write her name at the top. 

He’d crept away from the Northern wing of the keep in the dead of night, not caring for the stares and unsaid questions from anyone he happened to pass. He felt a pang of guilt for leaving Sansa curled up on her seat but a greater feeling had driven him away and back to the comfort of his own bed. It was not warm under the covers and he felt no better for having left but he continued he convince himself he needed to be alone till sleep took him. 

Seeing Sansa in the morning was not an option, either. He still had jobs to attend to and with the moot painfully close, just two days away, his work began to pile up. The Keep was filled to capacity but that did not stop lingering nobles and high Lords and Ladies pushing into his halls to find a place. Most had found rooms inside local inns and bunkhouses but now, he was informed, spaces across the city had become sparse. It was looking to truly be an event for the ages. Margaery Tyrell continued to remain the most popular name in the air but he caught the sound of others. Lord Redwyne had travelled to make his claim, as had an apparent distant Baratheon cousin. The docks were filled with ships from across the realm, each one sporting a new set of curious strangers. 

He found himself some respite in the afternoon. Having not yet broken his fast, he feasted on eggs and bacon before secluding himself to his rooms where he sat over his desk, quill in hand. That was  where he remained for some time, until a knock at his door roused him from his daze. 

‘Your Grace.’ A steward on the other side entered as he bid, his hands clasped together in front of him. The man was of fine  Riverlands stock and had served Tyrion well and with dignity. ‘The Queen in the North begs an audience.’ 

_ Shit.  _

_ ‘ _ Oh, aye- yes of course _.’  _ He kicked at the small mound of ruined letters and plastered on a smile to hide his fluster. The steward nodded silently and bid the figure behind the door to enter. 

As always, Sansa Stark came into view as if floating on water. She held her head up on her slender neck and rolled her shoulders back to give a perfect view of the protruding bones against her clavicle. If she were Margaery Tyrell, he might berate her for her stance but he had known her to walk like that since she was young- being noble was in her nature. She smiled prettily to the Riverlands boy and waited in silence as the door was gently shut. 

‘Are you well?’ Tyrion began quickly. He was yet to receive a visit from Sansa in his own rooms and usually she was busy at that time in the afternoon. She looked strange too. Her expression was set in a look of expectation and her eyes betrayed an anxious energy he rarely saw in her. Something was plainly on her mind that couldn’t wait. 

‘Yes, I’m fine.’ She wrung her hands together before her, another sign to him of something oncoming. 

‘But something is on your mind?’ He asked as calmly as he could though in truth her nerves had spread to him. 

‘Yes, I need to ask you something- and you must be honest.’ She did not sit, though he dropped a hand toward an empty chair. He could not stand the discomfort she emitted. 

‘Go on then?’ He could not disguise the light quaver in his voice. She still would not sit. She just stood like a piece on a board that called out to be moved or taken. 

‘I need to know what was in that letter.’ 

‘Sansa-’

‘I mean it. I have to know and, if you wrote it in the first place, you want me to know too.’ She had a look of resolution upon her face but it did not reach the rest of her. 

Now he was wringing his hands.  _ This is not how I intended this to go. ‘ _ Last night you were very clear you didn’t want to know.’ He reminded her with a kind look. She brushed it off with a firm shake of the head. 

‘I know but then I had too much on my mind. I’ll finish nothing if I carry on like that. I must deal with one thing at a time or I’ll explode.’ 

_ So, I am just a thing, then?  _ Something had held him back before and now that same feeling weighed heavily upon him. Tyrion Lannister was never one to mince his words and the ones he’d written had been, although kind, curt and clear. He knew she would value his honesty and not care for flowery language and metaphor yet he felt unable to repeat his exact wording.  _ Words on paper flow so much easier than on the tongue.  _

_ ‘ _ Well, at least sit.’ He gestured to the seat opposite him once more. ‘You standing there makes me jumpy.’ 

With slight hesitation she obeyed but, understanding that he was consenting, she appeared more settled. When she was sat, gown spread out around her legs, she remained still in waiting. Her blue eyes, this afternoon the colour of dark waters, were fixed on him and her lips were drawn together. 

‘You truly want to know?’ He gave her one last chance.  _ There’s no going back.  _

_ ‘ _ I do.’ 

‘Alright.’ He pulled his arms around himself to stall for a moment. He’d hoped that her ruining his first letter was a blessing and a sign that she never needed to know what was written. The Gods had not foreseen her perseverance and the stern looks that reminded him perfectly of her mother.  _ Oh, if Catelyn Stark were here, I would not survive this conversation. I may not survive it yet.  _

‘I called you a liar. I wrote that I’d barely heard you utter a true word since you arrived here.’

That had not been what she expected and her change of expression gave it away. She sat backwards in her seat, mouth slightly open and brows knitted together. He knew she had expected something greater- a injury to her honour or a simple rejection- but the truth was far more interesting. At last she sat back forward to speak. 

‘Tyrion I am the worst liar you know. I swear to you I haven’t been lying. I don’t understand you.’ 

He broke away from her eyes and looked away, out towards the window where he longed to be. ‘That’s the problem. You believe your words to be true, so, in your view, you are being perfectly honest. I know you better though, Sansa. I’m no fool.’ 

She crossed her arms defensively across her chest and rose ann eyebrow in a challenge. Her scarred skin stretched harder for her face to flex but she achieved the look she was aiming for. ‘Enlighten me then, if you know me better than I know myself.’ 

‘I don’t believe the Queen in the North would simply let some knight walk over her and trick her into marriage. The Sansa I knew would string him up as soon as she saw the plot unfold. I know you said you were worried he had some greater plan but if you were truly worried, you would’ve uncovered it. You’re proud and stubborn – not a meek girl letting a man have his way with her.’ 

Her story hadn’t sat well with him since he thought it through the morning after it was told. It seemed to make sense, at first glance, but he couldn’t picture Sansa in the shoes she’d made out for herself. 

‘I told you I had to keep my word for the sake of the Vale. I couldn’t upset Lord Robyn.’ 

‘Who arrived here some days ago. When I first saw him, I would be certain he would be one to hold a grudge and find a slight in you rejecting his man. But the Lord of the Vale is not what he once was. He did not appear to me the type to ruin a good relationship with the North over  _ Harry the Heir _ .’ The name fell off his lips, dripping in poison. The thought of the man forcing himself beside Sansa sent shivers through him but it was only worsened by the thought of her  _ letting him _ . 

‘I-’

‘Do you want to marry him or not?’ He spoke too harshly, he knew. His letter would never have come off so cruelly but he did enjoy watching her expression as she reasoned with the information herself. ‘You say you detest the poor man but have made no attempt to rid yourself of him. You’ve played for time for months – what are you waiting for?’ 

While he spoke, she’d sat perfectly still, eyes wide as she took him in. She didn’t bother to interject to make her own case and when he finished, she slumped back in her chair. She sat there for some time, face blank and colourless, eye fixed on a point on the ceiling and brow tight. As he began to expect she would say nothing at all, she jerked forward, pointing a finger towards him. 

‘I won’t have you thinking any less of me. You must understand.’ 

He nodded his head and drew up his hands. 

She shrugged, ‘Harrold is easy, I suppose. He fell into my hands. You know how many suitors I’ve had? Me neither; I lost count years ago. Not one was right. Not one was a proper fit for me or the North. The wars stripped the country of many of its young men. I had a chance to refuse each and every one of the them – but not Harrold. Saying no to him is hard because it means- it means I still believe there’s someone right out there and I’m not so sure if there is.’ 

He thought on this for a moment. He could only imagine the strange men asking her to dance, sitting at her side, fluffed and dressed up like prize chickens. Sansa would be polite, let each have their moment with her, and let them down with as much grace and dignity as she possessed. Courtship was a tiring game and, having never needed to play it before, Sansa was exhausted before she even started. He saw that in her eyes and heard it in her voice. Harrold was indeed easy and sometimes that was all a Queen needed. 

‘Not one man has been good enough? You really would settle for someone so boring you can barely say his name without a snarl.’ 

‘Not one.’ She replied with almost a smile. ‘I suppose I just have high standards. You’re the one to blame for that.’ She met his eyes through her lashes. 

_ You were the best of them. _

_ Of who? _

_ Everyone.  _

Her words drifted through his head once more. He’d heard them before she lowered a crown on his head and now they came to him in her expression. She thought too much of him and it had muddied her view of all others. 

‘And that’s another lie.’ He stood from his seat and walked, hands tucked behind him, to the window, putting his back between the both of them. He could feel her eyes staring back at him.  _ Must I spell it out? ‘ _ You think so highly of me, yet you left the South as quick as you could get away.’

‘Is this what this is all about?’ She spluttered. He heard her rise from her seat and the volume of her voice increase. He could imagine her standing before him with her arms raised and a vague look of irritation on her features. ‘I told you at the time I was doing what was best for the both of us. We are King and Queen of separate realms and-’

‘Yes, I recall.’ 

‘Then where is the lie? I had to put the North before however I felt. I’m always putting the North before how I feel. That’s my job.’ She was still speaking to his back and he didn’t bother to turn. 

‘I simply don’t believe you. Three years is not a long time, Sansa. I cannot believe you would rather cut yourself off from the rest of the world, from me, than wait a few years. You do not roll over and let the world do what it wishes with you. If you did, you’d have never left King’s Landing. You marched the length of Westeros more than once but  _ now  _ you recoil? Now you do what other’s want you to?’ Now he faced her, his arms open and his eyes imploring. She never retreated from his gaze and when he stopped talking, it only seemed to intensify as she stepped closer. 

‘Those are different things!’ She exclaimed. ‘It is one thing to free oneself and take what’s yours. It’s another to...’she trailed off and her lips opened and shut a she thought better of what she was going to say. ‘What do you want me to say Tyrion? What is it you want to hear?’ 

_ That you and I are fools and we should escape from here forever.  _

_ ‘ _ I want to know why! I don’t want to hear about duty or expectations because I know you don’t give a shit about any of that. I can’t see why and I don’t understand it.’ 

‘You think so highly of yourself?’ Her voice had dropped considerably and her stare turned dark. ‘You think it is a given that I would want to remain married to you when the rest of Westeros awaits me?’ 

‘Considering you’ve taken no other husband and are only marrying your betrothed because he didn’t give you much choice, yes, I do think quite highly of myself.’  _ And considering you tried to unman me in your chambers a few nights ago.  _ The conversation was circling. He huffed loudly. ‘I just want to know why you had it annulled.’  _ For my own sake more than hers. _

_ ‘ _ Because I knew you would not do it, even if that’s what you wanted.’ She spoke quietly, in reserve. 

‘Do not tell me you did it for my sake!’ He spit the words out and shook out his hands. Now even she didn’t believe what she was saying, it was plain on her face. 

‘I did it because I didn’t believe you!’ Sansa had regained her voice and now met him with a challenging glare. She spoke as if she had only just come to this realisation and her confidence in her words grew in the few seconds she stood, waiting for the inevitable questions on his lips. 

He sighed, ‘what did I lie about?’ He couldn’t remember ever being dishonest with her, he’d always been sure. 

‘Tyrion, when I said you were the kindest man I knew, I meant that. I have quite literally never known someone like you. Not even my brothers or anyone I grew up with were anything like you. At times you were the only thing that could make me smile, make me stop worrying and let me enjoy a moment without thinking about every other damn thing. Then you left and came back to me at Winterfell and you had somehow improved. The absence made your appearance oh so much sweeter. On the stairs when we-’ a blush slipped over her skin ‘-I thought perhaps that-’ She couldn’t finish the sentence and found something distracting in the hem of her sleeve. He’d never seen the formidable Queen of the North at a loss for words. 

‘Go on.’ He took a slow step closer towards her and made an effort to soften his features. He’d been harsh and though he misliked himself with a temper, it had been building so long, it had to be released eventually. Now that version of himself could be put away and the man she described returned to the room. 

‘But the moment I put the crown on your head and saw the smile on your face – I started to question what I’d assumed. We’d all been playing a game and yours was one that forced you by my side. You being good to me had to be you trying to soften the blow. It felt so obvious to me then. Your kindness was born out of guilt and the hatred that tied us together.’ She shrugged, ‘I thought perhaps you were just a kind man. How am I to know the difference? No man ever truly courted me until I was Queen. I have developed quite a talent for finding hope where there seems to be none but I doubted the same could be said for finding any kind of...of affection that did not exist.’ 

‘And what do you think now?’ He’d fallen into a seat as he listened, intently. Now he sat with his hands clasped before him, leaning forward. She  still stood, her eyes locked onto his without fault. 

_ Gods, what do I want her to think? _

_ ‘ _ I think that you are an even better man that I first thought and that I am a terrible woman.’ Her voice cracked and she squeezed her eyes shut. ‘You must know I never meant to hurt you- I. ..I just wanted us both to be happy. But I have found it  _ impossible _ .’ At the final word she dropped down to her knees, and rubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand. When she looked back up, he was on his knees before her, reaching for her hands. The blue in her eyes stood out even more against the raw red that surrounded them. 

Not in any of his years at her side had Tyrion Lannister seen Sansa Stark cry. He’d seen her beaten and humiliated. He’d seen her outlive her parents and most siblings. He’d seen her walk the halls of the keep that had become her prisoner. Yet never had she shown an ounce of emotion. She offered all her empty smiles and lifeless eyes but never allowed herself to be seen as weak. Perhaps she’d done it in private, he believed, but even he was kept away from seeing her in such a state. 

Now she sat on his chamber floors, trying her best to hold in her sobs, and he found himself unsure of what to do. He drew as close to her as he could and reached his hands forward. One took hold of hers and squeezed them, the other cupped her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. 

‘You know, not a day passed when I did not think of you.’ She said in half a laugh. She rolled her eyes at herself. ‘It grew so frequent I would curse you before I slept every night and again every morning.’ 

‘I have been known to be absurdly  persistent .’ 

She dropped her head in a mix of laughter and tears. He moved his hand to her neck and pulled her towards him. Her forehead rested on his shoulder and he held her  there while he thought. 

‘Sansa?’ He spoke lightly to rouse her. His thoughts had been enlightening. 

In answer she raised her head and, wiping at her cheeks, waited. 

‘I’m glad you never read that letter. I spend too much time writing to  maesters and troubled Lords. It was a foolish thing to do.’ 

‘And it was foolish for me to wish for an annulment.’ Her usual, firm tone had returned to her. 

‘Well,’ he quirked his head with a smirk, ‘that’s a given.’ 

Sansa spent the rest of the day in an uncomfortable state. Her heart had yet to cease hammering in her chest but, alone in her room, she had no reason to remain so agitated. Tyrion’s steward had interrupted them and found some duty for his King to do so Sansa had left him, promising to see him again to eat. Her hands still trembled in her lap and she found it impossible to sit still. Every worry she’d had for the past few weeks had left her but, in their place, she found herself in a daze. It was a welcome but unfamiliar feeling and she waited for it to pass seated upon her bed. 

The hours dripped by slowly. Her mind was set on dinner and so, of course, it stretched out hundreds of leagues before her.  _ I might as well be dining in Winterfell.  _

After a while, her body began to ache from sitting so still for so long. She roused herself and began the familiar process of readying herself for the dais. She  rebraided her hair and selected a deep red shawl to cover her peach gown. With a light dusting of rouge on each of cheeks, she smiled into the mirror and declared herself ready.  _ If only there were not still hours before I could go down.  _

A knock at the door came to her rescue. She had  no clue who would want anything from her but she welcomed the distraction, whatever it was. Even Brienne on the other side wouldn’t phase her. 

‘Ah, Sansa.’ It wasn’t the great knight but Theon Greyjoy staring back at her when she opened the door. He was gowned in a grey and green doublet, emblazoned with the Kraken of the Greyjoy’s on one shoulder and the Stark  direwolf on the other. ‘A man from the King was sent to ask for you. Dwarf wants you to see the  Dragonpit . He says there’s a litter ready.’ 

_ The  _ _ Dragonpit _ _ , what does he want with me there?  _

Not to appear to be thinking too hard on such a simple request, Sansa swiftly nodded her head let her Hand guide her down her stairs and towards the awaiting litter. Theon may not have been as strong, tall, or menacing as the others who normally protected her but she never felt afraid with him. She felt completely at ease with the young Greyjoy prince her childhood friend had married. He walked like a man of power and had proved himself a fountain of sound advice.

‘Will you  accompany me?’ Something about being driven alone to the  Dragonpit , with the light fading, was unsettling. 

‘Did you think I would let you go alone?’ He cocked an eyebrow, helping her up into the compact carriage before climbing in after her. ‘Not that I don’t think you’re capable, of course.’

‘Of course.’ She returned with a grin. He shut the litter door, tapped at the roof, and it jolted to life. 

They rode in silence, giving Sansa’s mind the chance to prepare herself for what was coming. It struck her as odd that Tyrion would invite her out across the city without her ever expressing an interest in seeing the  Dragonpit itself. The great building, dilapidated as it was, hadn’t been used for the keeping of dragons since they originally died off. It was in those walls where dragons had been born smaller and smaller, until they could only reach the size of small horses. As far as she knew, not a soul had used the great space on the hill since. 

_ Perhaps that’s what he desires.  _

It may just have been the only place in the city that they’d find themselves completely alone.  _ Is that what he thinks we need? Do we have to sneak around like some couple from a story banned from seeing each-other?  _ She’d been to his chambers just that day and he’d been to hers- she couldn’t understand his sudden secrecy. 

‘So, you and the King?’ Theon leant slightly forward, elbows on his knees. 

‘What?’ Once more he drew her from her imagination. She took a glance outside and realised they were already nearing the summit of the hill. 

‘Tyrion asks you here to meet with him all alone and you don’t look surprised.’ 

‘Tyrion and I are-’ She faltered.  _ Gods what are we?  _ They’d both spoken their mind and come to some conclusions but she wasn’t sure where that actually left her. It was the same question that had been buzzing around her head since they’d been interrupted by his royal duties. She wondered if he  summoned her all the way out here just to avoid that happening a second time. 

‘You don’t need to explain yourself to me.’ Theon sat back, evidently satisfied by her lack of an answer. She shook her head and tried to think of an excuse but the litter came to a sudden halt and her eagerness took over. 

She didn’t wait for Theon to open the door to her. There was no one there to play to. She let herself out and began walking towards the pit with its wide, open archways that led into a great sandy clearing surrounded by rows of seats where thousands would  squeeze to admire the beasts. 

‘Is that?’ Theon had joined her but now stopped dead before the doors. She herself had not been concentrating but now she blinked into focus. 

The pit was far from empty. Before them, curled into a protective ball, a great mass of green and bronze scales slept. Its body heaved with each slow breath which ended in small puffs from its extended snout. She could just make out the beast’s closed eye and a glint of white teeth protruding from its snarling mouth. She’d seen Rhaegal, Daenerys’ dragon, fall from the sky with a bolt sticking out of its rump and had heard the thump as it smashed into the ground, wrecking a row of houses and shops in the process. No one had told her he was dead but neither did she expect to find him alive before her. 

‘He is rather terrifying, even sleeping, isn’t he?’ Tyrion Lannister stepped towards them. It appeared he’d been waiting inside, keeping a fair distance from the dragon.

‘He’s alive? Last I saw he was still laying on those houses and you were trying to figure out how to move him.’ She stepped towards him. Theon remained where he was. 

‘Ah, I forget you left before he woke. We were certain he was dead but it was some kind of hibernation to help him heal. I think he scarred some beggars for life when he opened his eyes.’ The light was fading but she caught of flash of green from his eyes. 

‘He doesn’t fly away?’ They’d moved a little closer but she couldn’t see any chains. 

‘Can’t fly far,’ he shrugged. ‘We think he fell on his wing. He’s quite happy here- he's only burnt one man.’ 

In three years, she was impressed. ‘You’ve kept him a secret?’ 

‘A very poor one.’ He admitted with his usual sly grin. ‘He’s not exactly easy to keep quiet.’ They stopped several yards from him. She was happy not to venture any further. Tyrion was right, even in sleep, the beast held a strange power that was enough to turn her stomach. 

‘If you didn’t know he lived, what did you expect to see here?’ Tyrion looked up towards her. 

Sansa kept her eyes fixed on the dragon before them. ‘Hm?’

‘What did you want to speak about?’ 

Now her head turned to him. ‘I don’t know, I thought you had something on your mind.’ 

‘I’ve had many things on my mind since you left,’ he chuckled, a touch of confusion in his laughter, ‘but I meant what did you ask me here for?’ 

Sansa narrowed her eyes and tried to find the joke. Usually his humour struck her like keen arrows but this one appeared to have missed. ‘I don’t understand.’ She smiled faintly. ‘I’m here because you asked to see me.’ 

‘What?’ He paused and his tone dropped. ‘I never did. You sent a man to me to get me out here.’ 

The seriousness in his voice turned her blood cold.  _ If he did not summon me here, who did? _ Tyrion seemed to be thinking the same thing. In unison, they exchanged a look and their hands dropped to their belts. Sansa swept her shawl to the side and drew out her Valyrian Steel dagger. Tyrion  retrieved a short dirk set in gold. They both turned in a small, careful circle. 

‘Who in the city would want us harmed?’ She hissed to him.  _ How foolish are we? I knew it felt strange but I came anyway.  _

_ ‘ _ Is that a joke?’ He returned. ‘I still remain a dwarf, if you hadn’t noticed.’ 

‘No one wishes to kill you for being a dwarf.’ 

‘Is that so?’ 

They continued circling each other, squinting in the dusk light in the open space. Rhaegal released a puff of air. 

‘What fool would try to kill us here, with a dragon at our backs?’ The realisation was only a slight comfort to Sansa. Some of the maddest men she’d known had also been the most dangerous. ‘They’d have to be absolutely certain the dragon wouldn’t-’ 

_ Shit.  _

It came to her like a blow to the chest, knocking the air from her lungs. She stopped where she was, as did Tyrion, and let her eyes rest of the rising and falling dragon before them. 

‘And who can be surer that a dragon wouldn’t harm them, than their  _ mother _ .’ The voice echoed across the pit. A flash of silver behind Rhaegal confirmed her suspicions. She breathed out slowly and sheathed her knife. 

‘Daenerys?’


	6. The Day of Four Queens

‘Daenerys?’ 

‘What? Oh Gods. Daenerys?’ 

‘I’m sorry for the secrecy. I wish it didn’t have to be so difficult.’

Daenerys Targaryen, last child of Aerys Targaryen, the Mad King, circled around her dragon, her hand dragging  affectionatly across its iridescent scales. She examined her child with a mother’s careful eyes and gentle smiles before she bothered to look to them. The great  Dragonqueen looked unlike anything either Sansa nor Tyrion had seen before. Her long silver hair was braided all  down  one side, close to her scalp, while the other side hung loosely. Sansa had only seen Daenerys Targaryen in heavy furs suited for the winter but now she wore a light cotton piece that appeared to move of its own volition. It was gathered around her waist, to display her fine curves, and then dropped to her ankles. She wore light-blue for the fair weather and adorned herself with subtle, modest pieces of jewellery- most notably a three headed dragon broach that sat on her left breast. She appeared younger and fresher that either had ever known her to be and bore a brightness in her captivating violet eyes that drew all attention. 

Sansa noted how carefully placed each step was as the once-Queen approached them. Her apprehension was written on her tanned features and clung to her words. 

‘It’s good to see the both of you. Part of me thought it would never happen.’ When she reached them, she didn’t drop her head in deference but did respectfully drop her eyes and raise them again. ‘This was the best way of reaching you both without revealing myself.’ 

Sansa was at a loss for words. She often found herself speechless in such situations and this was no  exception . 

‘What are you afraid of?’ Tyrion was the one to speak. No one could deny the aggressive tone he took. Daenerys appeared to notice it but didn’t react. 

‘The city is full with hopeful Kings and Queens, is it not?’ She looked between both of them. ‘Many of which would do a lot to ensure I did not return.’ 

‘But your three years aren’t up yet. You have two days to spare. If you came to the keep and presented yourself, the throne would be yours.’ Sansa was next to speak, finding herself uncomfortable at Daenerys’ discomfort. 

‘And I thank you for your arrangement. I was led to believe it was you who decided it?’ Daenerys looked to Sansa who nodded. ‘But I will not be honouring it. I have made my choice. It cannot be changed.’

‘You will stand with the others?’ Tyrion seemed to understand his Queen faster than she did. 

‘I will.’ 

‘Then why are you here?’ 

Daenerys looked around awkwardly, her child huffed in support and she fixed her eyes in their direction. ‘For your permission.’ 

‘Our  _ permission _ ?’ The word hadn’t sounded natural as it fell from the dragon’s mouth. Sansa had to laugh at the idea of Daenerys Targaryen begging leave from her, of all people, and Tyrion, her own Hand. 

‘Yes.’ It was evident she did not enjoy the prospect as much as either of them did. ‘As King and Queen of the North and South I would only put myself forward if you thought I was good enough. No one knows the South or this city as you do.’ 

Both stood staring towards her. Daenerys stood before them, that was true, but she appeared like an apparition more than a real person. Sansa imagined if they touched, her hands would pass right through her figure like air. Daenerys Targaryen, in Sansa’s mind, had been confined to the past and would, eventually, be that only of legend and the histories. In those tales she’d live on as  an exaggerated version of herself – shining in her ethereal beauty, bathing in power and riding atop her dragon like something from myth. 

‘Well, as your Hand- I suppose-’ Tyrion began. Like Sansa he didn’t venture any closer towards Queen or her mount. 

‘Where have you been?’ Sansa interrupted abruptly. She could hear the apprehension in the current King’s tone and couldn’t  bear to see him lay down his support without at least a few questions. She was more than curious herself. ‘No one’s heard from you for three years. You cannot just leave without a word and expect our support.’ 

Daenerys nodded her head slowly. ‘I don’t regret what I did nor what I’ve been doing. But you deserve an explanation. I would demand the same.’ 

Daenerys Targaryen had not been idle in the three years since she left the  Kingdom she’d fought her lifetime away for, atop the back of her  Drogon . She’d ridden till exhaustion hit them both and they were forced to land across the water in Essos. 

‘I stayed there for some weeks. I didn’t know what I was doing.’ 

She’d found the various estates she’d been hidden away in while she was just a child. She found the red door she used to stare at from her window and wandered the markets her and her brother would  beg in . The beggar Prince and Princess were long in her past but not much had changed since she’d last been. The streets churned with bodies crowding around every stall and shop front. Little children, skin tanned and dirtied, drifted around on their light, shoeless feet like wisps of smoke. No one had paid her much attention then. Now was just the same. She cut through crowds wordlessly and nobody said anything to her in return. She was just another foreigner in the market. 

‘I did not belong there, as much as I didn’t belong in Slaver’s Bay. You told me that yourself, Tyrion.’ 

Tyrion nodded at the memory and Daenerys continued. 

‘The only place I knew I had to belong was here, in Westeros, but I also knew I couldn’t return. Something else called out to me. ‘

She’d spent her time in the city, living as a pauper. She had just a small bag of coin to her name and nothing worthy on her to pawn. She returned each evening to the hills where  Drogon was hidden and feasted on his catch scorched by his tongue. It was pleasant- pleasant to forget and pleasant to relax. She couldn’t remember the last time she could close her eyes and not fear being suddenly shook awake or not waking at all.  Drogon’s black body provided all the heat she needed. She didn’t yearn for walls or a featherbed. His wings were her walls and the ground was her featherbed. 

But she couldn’t remain there forever. Pleasant was nice but it wasn’t satisfying. He first few nights were thoughtless but soon enough her mind began to fill with everything she’d thought long before her. Westeros was distant, she didn’t think of it, but it was Slaver’s Bay that played on her mind. 

The cities she left behind when she took her ships to Westeros were worse than she’d imagined. The Great Masters ruled from up high once again, doubling down their control and working together to ensure no one challenged them as Dany once had. She returned to  Meereen and it was in the shade of the great Pyramids, not in them, that she saw the city for what it had become. She cloaked herself and walked the streets as any other traveller. Once more the city was divided between slaves and their masters and the gorge that opened between them had only widened. 

Her shawls hid her identity but she could not hide her outrage. In the lodgings she stayed in, men and women told her of the other cities of Slaver’s Bay – all just as destitute as the other. The masters were ever richer though. They paraded through the finer districts and the markets riding on elephants or cruising in golden carriages pulled by their sweating slaves. Nearly every time she stepped outside, she had to resist the urge to shout out. 

‘All my work there for nothing. I’d made it worse.’ 

‘So that’s where you’ve been, in Slaver’s Bay? I’d heard there was unrest there.’ Sansa Stark spoke up. There was still an air of caution in her voice. 

‘For a time, I was there. Yes.’ She nodded. ‘I made it my mission to right my own wrongs. It was foolish of me to leave the masters behind when we left. They were nothing but cowardly hoarders and could never be trusted.’ She took a slow breath. ‘I found Daario living in a small encampment. He just escaped when the masters returned with their full power. Together we – we took the bay back, and returned it to the people.’ 

Tyrion narrowed his eyes. ‘And the slavers? What became of them?’ 

‘They burned.’ She saw both retract a little in horror. The good Lords and Ladies of Westeros lived with the belief that their Gods were merciful so they should be too. Slaver’s Bay did not care for mercy or kindness. ‘Blood was all the masters knew. They traded in it- often preferred it to coin. I had nothing to offer them and no army to face them. I had  Drogon and – that was enough.’ 

The Queen in North took a step forward. ‘You expect us to vouch for you when you use slaughter to deal with your problems?’ 

‘Was it not you who fed the Bolton bastard to his own hounds? Or you who ‘slaughtered’ Joffrey Lannister in his bed? Mercy is good but sometimes it is not enough. Sometimes all we can do is let them burn and pick up the pieces when it’s done.’ She looked down and shook her head. ‘I nearly burned this city down for the same reason. But I realised  dragonfire was given to me for good, not just destruction. The bay lives on  _ because _ of their deaths.’ 

Sansa was clearly at odds. She looked between Tyrion beside her and Daenerys in search of a solution. But none seemed to reach her. In the low light of the coming evening, her blue eyes were  filled with such storms, they were nearly grey. For a moment she met the eye of Jon Snow for the first time again.  _ I knew it then and I know it now.  _

‘ What then?’ Tyrion broke the silence. ‘Did you come straight back here? Where’s the dragon?’ 

‘Valyria.’ The memory of her ancestral home came back to her. When she was certain the enslaved cities were free and would remain that way, she boarded  Drogon and urged him to return home. It was not Westeros she was seeking, not yet, but the burnt out lands her family had hailed from. Nothing was left but ruins, scorched and dead. The Doom had destroyed an entire empire. Where the peninsula had once stood, the uninviting dark waters of the Smoking Sea frothed and the only signs of the great city were piles of blackened debris and dust. 

‘I walk ed those lands. My family fled them to conquer Westeros and then I returned. The last one remaining. I knew it was time to come back here then, as they did, before I too was dust.’ 

A dark wing in the sky answered Tyrion’s second question with perfect timing. Rhaegal woke fully and sat up alert at the sound of his brother’s call. He even rose to his legs and tried to unravel his wings. As he stretched out, she saw the lines of broken wing and torn skin. She dropped her hand on his flank and watched on helplessly as her own child struggled to rise and meet with his brother. Once they’d flown across lands and seas alike together- the three of them nipping, circling and diving while she looked on. Viserion had been a victim of the cold and Rhaegal was bound to the ground. Only Drogon remained in the air. It seemed fitting that the last Targaryen’s mount would be the last dragon. 

‘I do not like it.’ The Stark Queen was the first to speak. Breaking her gaze from her children, Daenerys met the familiar eyes before her. ‘But I fear the alternative. If you took the crown now, those great Lords and Ladies that have been promised a moot and travelled here to make their claim would never support you. If you don’t run yourself, it will be Margaery on that throne and I cannot stand for that.’ 

‘Margaery  _ Tyrell _ ?’ She felt her shoulders relax at the small concession from the Northern Queen. ‘I thought she was your hand?’ 

‘She was. But she left me to pursue the Iron Throne.’ 

Daenerys would need to be a fool to miss the bitterness in her voice. She was reminded of a conversation she’d had with the young hand at Dragonstone. Margaery had told her she wouldn’t hesitate to be Queen if the opportunity presented itself. Unfortunately, she’d made good on her promise. 

‘I’ll do what I can to stop her.’ Daenerys launched a hopeful smile which was  hesitantly returned. 

‘Then we should get you some rooms.’ Tyrion approached the woman he once served the usual glimmer of respect in his eye. ‘Your arrival can’t be missed now.’ He gestured upwards to where  Drogon could be sighted disappearing into the horizon. 

Tyrion ate through his dinner quickly, his stomach more concerned with its discomfort than food. Beside him, Sansa did the same, making light conversation and sipping politely at her drink while her mind whirred silently. His eyes flicked over to where she sat, in a seat of honour several places from him, more times than he intended. The look of on her face was too intriguing for him to ignore. She was caught between relief and concern but showed it to no one. Everyone continued to eat, oblivious to the  Dragonqueen waiting in the royal chambers. 

When the plates were cleared and he’d been in company for the  appropriate time, he made his excuses and let his legs carry him towards his rooms. He considered, as he walked, that he had a much different evening planned. Ever since he’d spoken to Sansa, he’d expected to see her again after they ate to speak some more. Now Sansa had likely returned to her rooms to think more and he was on his way to speak to the last person he expected to see. 

_ The moot is the day after tomorrow. Sansa can wait.  _

As expected, the evening was spent in deep conservation. He filled Daenerys in on all he had changed in the south- on the measures that had to be taken to bring peace. He told her of the moot and all the hopefuls that were overflowing with giddy energy and of Margaery Tyrell; the only one maintaining her decorum. He told her also of all else that had happened in the three years she’d missed. Several important Lords had died, others had been born and the ancient keep of  Harrenhall had finally been left alone to rot without anyone to lay its curse on. 

Daenerys sat on a seat close by the window while he spoke. She nodded at the right moments and took thoughtful sips of the Arbor red he’d sent for. She asked questions in her soft voice she saved for those she trusted and smiled at the jokes he cracked. When there was nothing left to tell, she leant in towards him, eyes twinkling in the moonlight. 

‘You haven’t uttered a word about Sansa Stark.’ 

He shrugged lightly. ‘She’s Queen of the North. All there is to know is that we trade with eachother across the causeway. The Northern harvests are already looking to be-’

‘You know that’s not my meaning.’ She raised her eyebrow towards him and smirked. ‘She is here for the moot, I understand that, but is that the only reason?’ Her voice betrayed her amusement. 

‘As far as I am aware, that is the only reason she came.’

‘And is it the only reason you invited her?’

He shook his head at her. ‘Sansa is engaged to be married. If you are suggesting that there is something between us.’

‘Engaged?’ Dany slowly rested her cup on a table. ‘You didn’t mention that. Last time I saw her you remained married to her.’ 

He’d forgotten all that had occurred in her absence. The world Daenerys had left was a vastly different one to that which she returned to. She was not the only one who had changed in those three years. 

‘Aye,’ he swilled his drink. 

He chose not to tell her the whole story; of how Sansa did not truly care for the man she was due to marry and had settled for him for convenience. He didn’t tell her how Sansa had knelt a foot away that afternoon and begged forgiveness. He didn’t say how much he’d looked forward to speaking with her tonight. 

Daenerys didn’t say another word. Tyrion knew she was better than prying him for information he hadn’t already disclosed. She watched him though, with her inhuman eyes and pressed her lips together in a slight smile. 

‘I should get some sleep.’ She rose suddenly. 

‘Hmm? Yes.’ He stood too and led her towards the door that led into his bedchambers. He had to remind himself that she’d never been to these halls before. ‘This is rightly yours.’ 

Her bright eyes examined the red and gold bed with its intricately carved oak posts and matching canopy overhead. She took in every ounce of the room and something settled in her expression. 

‘I won’t. Don’t say anything.’ He’d gone to speak but she held up a hand to silence him. ‘If you have any nearby  rooms, I’ll gladly take them.’ 

‘There’s a spare, but you really should have this one.’ He tried to insist but she was firm. 

‘I have fought for that bed just as much as I have for the Iron Throne – neither are mine yet. I’ve told  you, I will earn that seat and then I can claim these rooms. You’ve done the realm a great service, Tyrion, and me too; I cannot take your bed from you now.’ She bowed her head and departed, forcing him to follow and show her the small room saved for servants who needed to remain in times of sickness. It was likely the only free bed in the entire keep, perhaps the city. She muttered a quiet thanks and gently closed the door between them. 

For a moment he wondered whether it was possible he’d imagined her completely but then the quiet sound of shifting furs and curtains told him he wasn’t insane. Daenerys had returned – _ Am I glad?  _ She still had the task of proving herself to the rest of the South but he respected her choice not to just seize the crown as if she’d never left. 

He trotted slowly back towards his bed and sat on the edge to pull of his boots. He’d expected to have a relaxed day before the moot finally arrived. While the rest of the city awaited in anxious jitters, he’d planned to pack away his belongings and take a walk through the gardens and streets. He hadn’t planned on staying in King’s Landing for long. 

Daenerys blew away that sweet farewell. Instead he knew his time would be spent making arrangements and ensuring it was her who was selected at the moot. There would be people for her to meet and she had no clothes or jewels to speak of to show her status. 

_ At least I know Sansa will help.  _ He could imagine she’d do anything to ensure Daenerys took the throne over Margaery. He smiled briefly at the absurdity of it all; years ago, he couldn’t have dreamt up Sansa standing against her own Hand for the sake of the Queen she distrusted. He laid back down on his bed and breathed deeply. The Gods did not want to make his life  easy, he could see that plainly. Early retirement and some peace had presented itself so neatly but now it had been swiftly and painfully wrenched from his grasp. If Daenerys succeeded, he’d root himself in the city once more.  _ How many more years must this damned keep hold me prisoner?  _

Sansa had been right in her assumptions. He wanted to travel and see the sights he’d not had the chance to see yet. But there was somewhere else he wanted to be.  _ Old rocks and stone will wait, but if I’m stuck here for any longer, I can’t be sure she will.  _

The sun had barely risen before the Red Keep was emptied out. Like rats swept from their nest, nearly every one of its inhabitants left through the main gates, the wealthiest climbing into carriages and litters and the rest cramming into the streets. They moved as one in their great pilgrimage across the city. There was a feeling in the air that reminded Sansa of the humming after a lightning storm. People shuffled along with excited looks upon their faces but they did not shout and jostle like the rowdy crowds she was used to. They spoke in hushed voices and walked respectfully alongside  eachother . The weight of the day was not lost on anyone. 

At first, it was agreed that the keep would be a fitting location for the moot but as it began to fill up, it became clear that it was impossible. The only any spot in the city, not taken up by a dragon, was the ruins of the Sept of Baelor. The Sept, destroyed by Cersei Lannister had never built rebuilt. Tyrion had explained the day before that many architects and priests came to him with their plans for an even great monolith to the Gods but he refused them all. 

‘Let it stand as a statue to my sweet sister.’ He’d spoken with a smirk. Sansa had promised that Cersei’s legacy would be a pitiful one and she relished in the idea of her greatest mistake standing tall for generations to come.

The rubble had been cleared years ago so only random pillars and stone chairs remained to prove that a Sept had ever stood in that spot. Much of the glass that had littered the nearby streets had been collected and transformed to be sold on. Now a wooden structure stood at the far end, facing the empty space where the centre of the seven-sided hall had been. Seats sat on top Sansa found herself sat at one, Tyrion at her side and Missandei of Narth and Theon Greyjoy close by. Jaime and Brienne also had places on the temporary dais but remained stood, hands never too far from their sword-belts. 

The hill had been set out like an arena of sorts. A fenced off section in the centre remained vacant and was surrounded by a curved table. It was slowly beginning to fill with representatives from the noble houses of Westeros- those that would have a vote when the time came. Behind them, a sea of faces was forming. Thousands squeezed side by side to catch a glimpse of the contenders for the crown. They remained in a strange, respectful quiet as the morning dawned on their backs. 

‘Excited?’ Tyrion leant in towards her, keeping his eyes ahead. 

‘ Terrified .’ 

‘Me too.’ 

_ ‘Are you scared to die?’  _

_ ‘Yes.’ _

_ ‘Me too.’ _

Tyrion had taken the same tone when they sat alone in her chambers the night before the dead came. She knew she was foolish to think that the moot would be half as bad but to hear the trepidation in his voice let her believe her fear wasn’t completely misplaced. This decision would make or break Westeros, just as much as the dead could have, and this time there was even less that she could do. 

The King stood from his throne and stepped to the edge of their platform. A hush fell over the hill. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, honoured Lords and Ladies of Westeros,’ he cast his eyes briefly behind him. ‘Your Grace. I welcome you all to this most hallowed day. We stand here, as per the Queen Sansa’s decision, to select the next King or Queen of Westeros.’ He coughed slightly. ‘It has been an honour to sit on your throne but my arse is getting quite sore and I believe someone else should have to endure it now.’ Light chitters from the crowd rose up towards them Sansa saw his shoulders drop as he relaxed. ‘Five contenders have put their name forward and will stand before the council today. Lords of most great houses have made the journey today, as well as one representative of the city chosen by the people. Now, let us begin before we all drop dead in this heat.’ With a graceful bow, he dropped backwards into his chair with a huff of breath. 

The High Septon stepped forward and called out in his shrill voice. ‘Today we stand on blessed ground that...’

‘Not a bit of sadness to be giving your throne away?’ Sansa now leant towards him. 

‘Not at all.’ He grinned in response. ‘All things end, and some things we’re  particularity glad to get rid of. This thing-’ he pointed to the golden crown on his equally golden curls,‘- being one of them.’ 

She thought of her own silver circlet fixed on her head. It weighed heavy on her but, gradually, she had grown used to the pressure. It was still a relief to take it off but she didn’t curse its very existence anymore and often felt strange walking around without it on. She couldn’t imagine taking such joy out of giving it away, especially if unsure who it would be going to. 

‘And,’ she grinned as the Septon continued to drone on about the Gods, ‘who is your money on?’ 

He glanced towards  her, eyes wide in mock surprise. ‘Did Sansa Stark just ask me to wager on the fate of the realm?’ He dropped his voice. ‘I believe Daenerys will take it.’ 

She pressed her lips together, impressed with his loyalty and faith in the woman who left him.  _ But aren’t I also the woman who left in? I should thank the Gods for his belief. _

_ ‘ _ You don’t think it’ll be her?’ Tyrion cocked his head when she didn’t respond. 

‘Margaery has had more time in the city. Daenerys stepped foot here for the first time two days ago. I hate to think it, but I don’t think Margaery’s claim will be weakened by Targaryen blood.’ 

‘The days of clear-cut succession appears to be over.’ The Septon was  bringing his impromptu sermon to a close. ‘Blood can be overcome by competence and will – you stand as an example yourself.’ 

‘Exactly,’ she muttered quickly before attention fell back to them, ‘who can know where we stand?’

They were not needed for most of the proceeding. In a way, that had to be the point. Each of the contenders stepped forward before the council and the crowds beyond, and gave a short statement. When Daenerys stepped out, draped in the red and black of her House, it elicited great excitement from the onlookers but they were soon quietened down. She spoke clearly of her successful conquest and of her  birthright which was met with several vigorous nods from the council. Sansa did notice that the man who represented the city did not appear satisfied and maintained a steady frown. 

Daenerys retreated to a seat and they awaited the final contender. 

‘You look  beautiful , your Grace.’ 

‘I am not Queen, do not say that.’

Margaery Tyrell was shielded from the crowds behind a shattered pillar that had once made up one of the seven walls of the Sept. She was awaiting her call to make her claim before the city and meanwhile her maid fussed around with the ribbons on her dress and each strand of hair. Eventually she had the push the clucking hen off of her. 

‘Leave me.’ She commanded curtly. 

In the distance, she could catch the voice of her competition. She had to admit, seeing Daenerys Targaryen emerge from a litter with her flowing silver hair and intense eyes was a mighty shock. All eyes had fallen on the long-forgotten Queen and Margaery had felt her stomach seize up. She adorned her face with her best smile as the Dragon approached. 

‘Daenerys, it’s been so long. I didn’t expect to see you here. You look  _ divine _ .’ 

‘Thank you.’ She responded simply, looking Margaery up and down. She said nothing more and disappeared into some Lannister servants.  _ There is no doubt who the King supports then.  _

When her maid had finally let her be, she released a long-held breath. She felt the build-up of nerves in her gut but it was nowhere near as severe as she had expected.  _ It is because I was meant for this.  _

For many years, Olenna Tyrell had told her  grandaughter that she was meant for great things. Her brothers would be knights and fine Lords but she was meant for something even more grand. When Olenna told  Margaery she was destined to sit on a throne, she believed her. She imagined herself in a crown and looked out of her balcony as if she were looking out over her own kingdom. 

The truth of the matter was far from the dreams put in her head. The world of Kings and Queens was not romantic and spirited; it was corrupted and fuelled by deceit. The King she was married to didn’t die as expected and she was stuck with him. That had never been part of the plan but she had to suffer through regardless. She was a Queen, as promised, yet she saw no beauty in her life. She was powerless in her own bedroom, let alone a kingdom and not a soul would listen to her. 

When she escaped the city, she vowed never to be so fanciful again. Her grandmother had lied to her, being Queen wasn’t her destiny. Margaery continued on in this way for some time. She was glad to serve Sansa as her Hand, glad to have influence even if it was thousands of leagues from home. 

The idea still hung in her head. She expected it to remain a fantasy from her past, a dream of her childhood that she had firmly set aside. Yet it didn’t. Daenerys Targaryen sparked the cinders of her ambition and when she looked upon the throne for the first time in years when they took King’s Landing, it surged once more. 

The life she enjoyed with Sansa was never the same. She tried to find a quaint kind of comfort in the North but she was unsatisfied with everything. Food lacked flavour, songs were all offkey and her work felt banal and useless. When the thought came to her that she had the right to something more, she ran away with it- and never looked back. 

Now she stood on the edge of all she had dreamed and felt a wash of calm. This was the future Olenna Tyrell had promised. They’d gone about it the wrong way the first time. The crown was hers to gain for herself, not alongside another. She was to be Queen, not consort and never again a Hand. 

‘You look different.’ 

‘Asha?’ 

Margaery awoke from her thoughts to find the  Ironborn Queen staring back at her. Asha Greyjoy looked just as she remembered in her leather jerkin, an axe swung across her back and a dirk at her belt. The last time she had seen the Kraken was in the cabin’s quarters before the newly  acquired Ironfleet separated from the  Manderly ships to swing around the continent and return back to Pyke. They’d said their goodbyes under the covers and parted under a haze of dizzying ecstasy yet it had faded just as soon as both had returned to their lives. 

‘Do I look like a Queen?’ She smirked. 

Asha looked down upon herself. ‘By my standards – no.’ 

Margaery shook her head. ‘I’ll be called to speak  soon, did you want to say anything?’ 

Asha shrugged, she took out a green apple from a leather bag and sunk her teeth into its flesh. ‘Just be careful.’ She said in simply but  there was sincerity in her expression. Margaery had never seen such concern before. She expected, since their departure, all feeling between them had faded. It was a brief moment of excitement and bliss they both grasped at in the midst of war and death. Peace changed people, but Asha Greyjoy looked to her as if no time had passed at all.

‘Lady Margaery?’ 

‘Y-yes.’ She shook her head and replaced her winning smile. She looked briefly towards the  Ironborn Queen, who raised her apple to her like a toast, before she followed the young squire around a corner and in front of the crowds of Westeros. 

Sansa was beginning to feel numb. The wooden chair she sat on was well supported with cushions but it was growing harder ever minute. She caught herself fidgeting from time to time and had to force herself to hold still not to appear disinterest. Daenerys had come and gone, delivering a fine speech, and Sansa had enthusiastically clapped for when she took her seat. Now only Margaery Tyrell remained to state her case. A wave of nausea washed silently over as the Rose of Highgarden took her place and opened her mouth. 

Years later, Sansa would claim that she purposefully did not listen to the speech that Margaery Tyrell made on that day. She would say, out of principle, that she chose to ignore her. Tyrion knew differently. He’d seen the colour drop from her face and her eyes fix ahead of her, looking into the near distance. She was far from sly and appeared too full of nerves to fixate on principles. Sansa, indeed, did not hear what was said, but this was by no means purposeful. 

She hadn’t taken a word in but, with the eruption of clapping and shouts, she was aware that Margaery had finished. Her eyes snapped to the back of the girl’s head, brown hair falling in effortlessly perfect waves down to the small of her back. The dress she’d chosen, from behind at least, was stunning as far as Sansa could guess. The material was of the finest cloth of gold she’d seen, inlaid with green roses that were so tiny, she couldn’t imagine how they’d been stitched. It cut off at the top of her arm, revealing the slightly tanned skin of her shoulders, and came back together around her neck. She supposed, from the front, she looked even more the elegant and glorious lady. 

‘Theon!’

‘Sister!’ The seat beside her was vacated as Theon Greyjoy rose suddenly at the sound of incoming footsteps on the creaking wooden panels. Embracing her brother briefly, Asha Greyjoy made her appearance, looking just as Sansa remembered her. 

‘The council will now take its leave.’ Lord Robin Arryn stood from his central seat, and turned to address the crowds behind. With his words, the curved table emptied and the council filed out. A tent had been erected, shielded from view behind a large section of ruins. That was where they were to fall into discussion. When they were gone, Sansa turned to the newcomer, some of the colour returning to her cheeks. 

‘Asha!’ She stood from her seat and allowed the sea-farer to step forward and squeeze her arms around her for a moment. ‘You’ve come for the moot?’

‘Aye.’ She hummed, ‘although I wouldn’t have bothered if I knew how difficult it would be to dock in the harbour.’ 

‘You arrived this morning?’ Theon let his sister take his seat beside the Queen. They both sat down. 

Asha nodded. She sat with her legs slightly apart, leaning her elbows on her strong thighs and clasping her gloved hands together. ‘Whose is the big black bugger? It was leaving just as we arrived. I took its place.’

Sansa thought hard. She’d been informed by Tyrion of most of the more noble guests that had arrived in the city but she hadn’t heard of anyone with a great black ship, or any leaving early. 

‘There’s no trade ships due to leave. The harbour’s too busy for them to load.’ Tyion chimed him. His brow was also pulled together in thought. 

‘Who would leave today?’ She mused. Nobody had an answer and the four remained staring in the direction of the Blackwater as they considered the question individually. 

As they sat, Sansa began to feel the sense of unease return to her. She could not place what Margaery Tyrell had said exactly but, by the reaction of the people, it had struck a chord. She tried to recall how they’d sounded after Daenerys had spoken.  _ Was it louder? Did they cheer more for the Dragon or the Rose?  _ Her uncertainly plagued her mind and twisted her insides until she was only sure of the feeling. She’d spent the day before helping Tyrion with Daenerys, telling her all they could and preparing her for what she would face. Then, she’d been so convinced they would win, she hadn’t even considered the alternative. Now that it faced her however, in the form of the awaiting decision of the council, it began to drip its oozing venom into her ear and spread its doubt. 

She stood up abruptly, pushing her chair behind her. 

‘Are you alright?’ Tyrion looked up towards her. She could almost see her ghostly pallor reflected in his eyes. 

‘I need some air.’ She lied carelessly. She knew well he would see past her words but she wasn’t thinking hard enough to try better. If he followed her now, what harm would that cause?

She climbed carefully down the stairs and turned away from the stage, back towards the singular crimson tent sitting in the middle of the wreckage. Its pristine quality made its presence ever more uncanny - like a diamond laying in the dirt. It did not belong, and  neither did she. 

She parted the flaps of the door and slipped into the fold where energetic conversation could be heard from several paces away. Inside, a small table had been set up but few elected to sit. Most stood, leaning across or observing from behind as the discussion unravelled. Sansa joined them at the back, beside Gendry who only raised an eyebrow at her sudden appearance. At first, she was not noticed.  Their to and froing of argument enveloped every soul. The gravity of their decision thickened the air and set every face to stone. 

It was  Edmure Tully, her uncle, who glanced up and was the first to spot her looking on. His blue eyes watched her for a moment unblinkingly before he raised an arm in welcome. 

‘Queen Sansa.’ He coughed out, caught unawares. ‘What brings you here?’

She knew in truth he meant:  _ you shouldn’t be here. This is not your decision to make.  _ Yet she held her ground and smiled pleasantly. 

‘I come as a representative of the North. Whoever sits in the Iron Throne has an impact on us as well.’ 

‘I thought it was agreed you would have no vote-’ A Lord unknown to her spoke out dryly. 

She raised her hands to him in a surrender. ‘And I don’t intend to have one. I have not been banned from having a say though. Would you allow me that?’ 

A few heads turned around to each-other with searching gazes. Lord Arryn was the first to speak. 

‘Of course, cousin. Join us.’ 

She shot him a grateful look and took a step closer to the table they huddled around. Her Uncle  Edmure raised his hands and began. 

‘What has Margaery Tyrell done for you?’ 

A tall, slight man with a dappled beard chuckled lowly in response. ‘And what has Daenerys Targaryen done for you? She came and left like the wind. How can you have faith in that?’

‘How can you have faith in a girl with so little experience, Tarly?’  Edmure shot back, his tone cutting. ‘If it weren’t for Daenerys, King’s Landing would still be ruled by Cersei Lannister. Do you not remember who it was that came to their rescue when Stannis attacked?’ 

‘Lord Tully is right,’ a familiar voice called out, ‘I’ve spent enough time with both to know that Daenerys is the one who seeks change. The Tyrell’s have only shown interest in power.’ 

‘Do not be discourteous, old man.’ Now Willas Tyrell appeared, leaning to one side on his fine cane. ‘Let us not forget who served Stannis Baratheon in his rebellion. The Tyrell’s showed loyalty while you showed insolence. It is a great joke that you are recognised as a noble Lord.’ 

Lord Davos Seaworth came into view, his face as serene and serious as always but his rage given away in his eyes. He managed to contain the offence of the slight but she knew he was bristling within. Davos, who had served her brother for a time after Stannis Baratheon’s death, had retreated back to the lands the pretender-King had gifted him where his wife and remaining children awaited. House Seaworth was not large but evidently Tyrion had deemed the man wise enough to have his opinion heard. 

‘This is not the time to revisit past wounds.’ Robin Arryn spoke in a level voice. Every time she saw her cousin, he appeared to grow taller and better into his role as Protector of the Vale. She pushed thoughts of Harry the Heir from her head and focused on the talks at hand. ‘This is about who will be the best for our future. House Arryn stands behind Queen Daenerys.’ 

‘Do you forget your own father, boy?’ Tarly’s voice rose again. His face had taken on a purplish hue. ‘Jon Arryn fought beside the Starks and  Baratheons to remove the  Targaryens but now you stand with Aerys’ daughter?’ 

‘I do.’ Robin held his face still. 

‘As do I.’ Gendry spoke up. 

‘And I.’ Sansa joined in. She felt the mixed eyes fall open her after she spoke. There was no sign of surprise in their glares, only looks of either agreement or disappointment. ‘My father, Eddard Stark, knew not to judge people based solely on their parentage or even their House. If we are to be held accountable for our ancestor's actions then I do not see a face before me who would be spared from the gallows.’ 

Light mumbling followed her. She released a breath of relief. 

‘Let us cast our votes.’  Edmure Tully called out, bringing about a quiet. Her uncle may not have been the greatest of men, but Sansa knew, as Lord Paramount of the Trident and son of Hoster Tully, he still held great respect. ‘Otherwise we’ll be going in circles for hours.’

As one, the room nodded in assent and small counters were handed out. This was the way men of the Night’s Watch chose their Lord Commander – with counters dropped into separate boxes. She watched on as the council members cast their votes with trembling hands. It was too difficult to keep track of the number of  _ clacks  _ heard coming from each box. She closed her eyes briefly and mouthed a small pray to her far away Gods. 

‘Who shall perform the count?’ A voice called out when all votes had been cast. The men and women looked around with suspicious eyes. No man could be trusted not to increase their own share or decrease their opponent’s. Names and suggestions were shouted across the tent but no one seemed satisfied. 

‘Queen Sansa, Lord Baratheon.’ A voice hissed from behind. 

When Sansa turned around, Gendry being slower at picking up his title, she found there was no one between them and the tent flap. She quickly gazed around at the room. They were still deciding, enthralled in yet another argument that would surely lead to more personal attacks and derision. 

‘Did you hear that?’ Gendry nudged her gently with his elbow. Without changing her expression, she nodded her head. 

‘Come outside.’ 

Now she locked eyes with her soon to be good-brother. Their conversation was unspoken but it was decisive. With hands resting on their swordbelts, they slipped out of the tent and into the day she didn’t recall being so bright. Shielding her eyes, Sansa scanned across the ruins surrounding them for the source of the voice. A shadow caught her eye. 

She wagged her finger at Gendry for his intention and bid him follow close behind her. Now with dagger in hand, she crossed the grass-covered stone as lightly as she could, towards the pillar  bheind which she’d seen movement. In a single, swift turn, she swung around the other side and came face to face with the speaker. 

_ Bran? _

It wasn’t Bran. He was a boy, of eleven or twelve, with sandy blonde hair and a dusting of light freckles across his dirtied skin. He looked nothing like Bran but she knew her brother was nearby. The boy’s eyes were rolled completely up, exposing only the pure, twitching white below. He fixed them both with his empty stare and opened his mouth. 

‘You have to leave.’ His voice was hoarse, like the words were being forced through his throat. 

‘Leave? Go where?’ Her voice rose in pitch. She kept her dagger raised, fearing a trap. 

‘Back to Winterfell. Take what you need and come back. You cannot stay there or you’ll never leave.’ 

‘What does that mean, Bran? Bran!’ The boy’s eyes had returned to usual. He stood for some moments rubbing the sockets and groaning slightly. With a confused look to the Queen and Lord staring at him, he turned on his heels and took off without a word. 

‘Your brother?’ Gendry huffed out.

‘I believe so.’ She glanced around. ‘We have to do what he says. I planned to stay a little while longer but,’ she faltered. The thought of leaving Tyrion to never return was a heavy blow, ‘but we’ll leave as soon as the decision is made. Tonight, if we can.’ She said the last part with resolution but she knew she did not sound convinced of her own words. 

There was a cheer coming from the direction of the tent. With a look between them, they hurried back where they were met with the council on their way out. She couldn’t read their faces. Some looked elated, others like they’d seen their wives massacred. She waited to see someone who’s allegiance she could be sure of. 

_ If  _ _ Edmure _ _ is happy, or Robin, I’ll know Daenerys  _ _ has won _ _. If that Lord Randyll Tarly looks pleased, Margaery has their support.  _ By their discussions, she ruled out the chances of anyone else succeeding. 

Her insides felt ripe to explode while she waited for the streams of nobles to thin. Every leg that pushed itself outside, she prayed would be someone she recognised and she felt a surge of disappointment each time it wasn’t. She listened into the conversation of the men passing but they said no names. They couldn’t have their decision being carried on the wind and revealed early. 

_ End my suffering, please.  _

A balding man with a grey beard was among the last to leave. She couldn’t see much of him inside but now, in the daylight, she saw Randyll Tarly in all his Greens and Reds, the colours of his house. At his breast he wore the sign of an archer stringing his bow. She looked upwards at his face.

He smiled. 

_ Gods save us.  _


	7. The Black Sails

‘Are you certain it was Bran that spoke to you? Someone could be trying to lure you North.’ Tyrion stood in the doorway while she folded her clothes, stacked them into boxes and handed them to the coming and going servants. 

‘I would only go if I was certain.’ Sansa responded, slightly out of breath. The moot had been just hours ago and ever since she’d been frantically arranging for her party to return North.  _ But I wouldn’t stay much longer even if Bran hadn’t given his warning.  _

_ ‘ _ You will be safe though? You must send ravens if anything happens.’ He took a step towards her and laid a hand on top of one of hers to stop its rapid movements. He could feel her trembling. 

She glanced to him. ‘And where shall I be sending those ravens?’ 

She could see his jaw clench and relax at her question. She regretted asking it, so shortly after Daenerys lost, yet she knew she wouldn’t get another chance. 

‘We’ll stay here a while, I’ve no doubt.’ He spoke somewhat absentmindedly, as if he was trying to piece together his plans on the spot. ‘But we cannot stay forever. We’ll go to Dragonstone perhaps –or – or wherever Daenerys wishes to go.’ There was a sadness in his voice. That morning Tyrion Lannister had woken up a King now he would go to bed a servant once more. This time, at the very least, he would stand on equal grounds to the one he followed. He was going willingly, she knew; his sense of loyalty still bound him to the last Targaryen despite it all. 

A Dragon’s screech seeped into the room through the open window. They both turned as one to search the skies for the black beast. 

‘This is not how it was supposed to be.’ Sansa folded the last of her gowns and lay it down with the rest. She wrung her hands together. ‘The point was to bring peace. I’d hoped that I would return North, leaving a safe kingdom behind. But now, I fear-’ 

‘That our peace has ended?’

‘It’s not that I think poorly of Margaery’s skill. She’s sharp and no fool. I just have a feeling I cannot shake.’ She fell down onto the bed and met his eyes, reflecting her own troubles. The witch that she spoke to in White Harbour had told her Tyrion would bring peace, and she was right about that, but that also the Dragon would return. She’d never said a thing about what would happen next but Sansa had always presumed the peace would be a lasting one.  _ Men are made for war. It is foolish to think we few could do anything to stop that.  _

_ ‘ _ I wish we didn’t have to part, again.’ She said it in no more than a whisper. 

‘It’s becoming a strange habit.’ He smirked, eliciting a small laugh from her. ‘ But, I promise  you, this is not the end.’ He reached a calloused hand forward and rested it upon her cheek. He held her there for a moment and she burned the feeling of his skin on hers into memory. 

With his spare hand he took hold of hers and brought it slowly towards his mouth. Softly, his pressed his lips against her, eyes still locked upon hers. He lingered for some time and Sansa felt her eyes drift shut for a moment. When they opened again, there was something new in his expression – fear, pain, disappointment? She couldn’t read it but, still, she knew she was feeling just the same. He said no words as he let her hand drop to her side, but she heard them whispered on the wind. It was goodbye, not a final one, but it still hurt  too much to say aloud. 

‘Tyrion, Sansa?’ A light knock at the door was followed by gentle footsteps on the floor. Daenerys Targaryen stepped into the room, still in her fine gown from the moot and still with the air of  regalness that she couldn’t shake. 

‘Your-’ Tyrion checked himself, ‘Daenerys.’ 

The once-Queen took a quick look around the room and came to her own conclusions. Meanwhile, Tyrion took a subtle step backwards from the bed. 

‘You’re leaving.’ It was a statement, not a question. 

‘Aye, tonight if the ship is ready.’  _ Which it will be _ . ‘My brother Bran sent me a message of a danger at Winterfell, I have to return.’ 

Daenerys nodded her head carefully. ‘I wish you could stay longer.’ 

‘As do I.’ 

They remained in silence for a while. Daenerys’ expression did not shift but her bright violet eyes seemed to dim. 

‘Daenerys?’ Sansa stood from her bed and approached the woman before her. She grasped her pale white hands and held them between them. ‘You are always welcome in the North. In fact, I beg you to come to Winterfell- you can come see Jon too.’ She added quietly. 

‘Thank you, I will.’ 

_ And I’m sorry for judging you poorly when we first met. I’m sorry for what you’ve been through just to get here. I’m sorry that it got you nowhere. I’m sorry that the world is always unkind to us who have struggled for so long, for so little.  _

But she couldn’t say any of that, what was the use? The damage was done and now the seeds had been sown. All any of them could do was bide their time and await what the future would bring. Her apologies couldn’t bring any respite or set the past right. 

_ ‘ _ I have arrangements to make, if you’ll excuse me.’ Without meeting either of their eyes, she picked up the last piles of her small supply of belongings and pressed them into the arms of a nearby steward. With a brief nod he took them away to be packed onto their carriage. The trip down towards the harbour would not be so glamorous as the one up. Theon had found them two carriages, large enough to carry them all and their belongings. Only the few Stark guards she’d brought along with her would be riding outside. They’d take the swiftest route through the city and no one would come to see them off. 

_ We look like we’re running either way, best not to draw attention.  _

_ ‘ _ Your Grace?’ 

The voice came from behind. The night had crept in and Sansa was making her way towards the waiting carriages. She had done everything she could think of to ease their retreat. She could not count the number of people she’d spoken, briefly, to and now she ached to sit down and let herself be carried away. She would be home soon, at least that was of some comfort. 

She turned to meet the voice, well aware of whom it belonged to. ‘Margaery.’ She chose not to include the new Queen’s titles. There had been no coronation yet, although Sansa was sure the Tyrell rose had already installed herself as monarch.

‘You’re leaving.’ She said it the same as Daenerys had just hours ago, but her voice was tinged with something much darker. The accusation rung in the dark halls. 

‘I’ve been summoned North.’ She explained  coolly . 

‘Ah.’ Margaery glanced away briefly, in thought. ‘It’s a shame to see you go.’ She sounded almost  hopeful . 

Sansa shook her head. ‘I have to, good luck.’ She turned around and began back down the hall. She had no intention to stand and talk. 

‘Sansa?’ 

The call of her name halted her in her tracks. She felt herself taken back to their days on the road. When she thought all was lost for their cause, Margaery Tyrell had stood beside her, with her bright eyes and mischievous grin and the world seemed a little less cruel. She recalled the night, when she truly believed that there was nothing to be done, that Margaery had held her while she wept and hummed to her until she fell asleep.  _ How can such days feel so long ago?  _ Their memory hurt and she pushed it away, to no avail. 

‘Yes?’ She swung back around. The great brown eyes stared back at her like candles, illuminating the darkness. 

‘I’m sorry that I’ve hurt you. We used to be such great friends – like sisters. I would give a lot to return to those days.’ She reached a pale hand forward and rested it on Sansa’s arm.

_ But you wouldn’t give your crown. _

Sansa tugged her arm away and stalked away. She had nothing to say to Margaery Tyrell that she wouldn’t regret in the future. The longer they spent together, the greater the taint spread over every happy memory they shared. They sat in gloom, like abandoned rooms, and she did not visit them enough to care. 

_ She made her choice. I have never had such luxury. At least I can hope her new crown will teach her a lesson in hardship.  _

Sansa reached the harbour in the second carriage - the first having already left by the time she reached the courtyard. Theon, Arya and Gendry piled into the small space, their luggage tied to the back, and they set off down the hill. 

It was uncommonly quietly when she stepped out. The cool, spring air pressed chaste kisses against her cheeks and for a moment she regretted leaving the Southern warmth. 

The Young Wolf awaited them in the harbour, bobbing delicately in its place. The tales of the docks had not been exaggerated. There was not a single free place for a ship to dock. She recalled the great black ship that had departed just that morning. Her mind wondered over it while she boarded. 

‘Jaime Lannister?’ The knight stood with his back to her on the prow of the ship but she  recognised him in an instant. He spun around and met her with an easy smile. 

‘Sansa, good to see you.’ 

A million questions hung on the tip of her tongue but she was deftly silenced by the incoming figure that stood by the  Kingslayer’s side. Brienne of Tarth, once more dressed in full armour, looked between the two of them. 

‘I suppose you’ll be joining us, ser?’ She raised an eyebrow. Jaime nodded.

‘I meant to ask you but-’ Brienne began.

‘You don’t need to explain.’ Sansa had barely spoken to her Commander, other than to tell her they would be leaving that night. Even that brief conversation had felt sharp and unnatural. ‘It’s good to have you with us. Both of you.’ 

Brienne’s eyes flashed upwards. Their bright blue caught in the moonlight like shining sapphires. A thousand words poured out of them and Sansa knew their meaning. Neither of the women were ones to back down or apologise easily but it was said silently. She nodded carefully, a ghost of a smile forming on her lips, and retreated inside to seek some form of safety and calm. 

‘Ah, your Grace?’

_ Will the day ever cease with its  _ _ surprises _ _? _

_ ‘ _ Ser Davos? _ ’  _ The aged night was waiting at a table, a cup in hand. He glanced up and raised thick, white eyebrows when she entered. Although Davos Seaworth had been recognised as a Lord, out of habit she couldn’t think of him as anything else but the ever-loyal onion knight. He didn’t seem to mind and made no move to correct her. ‘You’re travelling with us?’  _ Too?  _ She almost added. 

‘Aye, if you’ll have me. I didn’t mean to intrude but I heard you were leaving and thought I might make use of your ship. My bones aren’t keen on great excursions anymore. I travelled with the Vale lot before but I don’t think they’ll want to be leaving anytime soon.’

She nodded though she did not understand. ‘We are headed to White Harbour  though, we will not have the chance to stop at Rainwood.’ 

‘It is a good thing I am not heading home just yet, then.’ He took a mouthful of ale and smiled warmly towards her. His kind face always put her at ease. She took the seat opposite him. ‘I mean to visit Lord Manderly. I quite liked the boy’s father and I haven’t had the chance to really introduce myself to him.’

She sat back in her chair and relaxed. ‘Then you are most welcome. It will be a pleasure to travel with you again.’ 

‘Me, an onion knight and backwater Lord? I think the pleasure is mine.’ 

She reached across the table and selected herself a honeyed wine. The ship lurched as it’s sailed unfurled. 

‘And what of your dear wife and children? I hope you’re not abandoning them for a romp in the North?’ There was some bread on the table too. She pulled off a chunk, suddenly aware of her hunger. 

‘Ah, my  Marya can handle herself. I think she quite likes the time alone. She was most put out when I came back last time.’ 

_ But she knows you’ll always come back to her.  _ She wondered what that feeling was like. Davos and  Marya had been married longer that Sansa had lived and still no time of separation damaged what they had. He was not unhappy to spend time away from her because fates kept them from losing each other.  _ The fates have other plans for me.  _ The Gods has only shown contempt for Sansa’s happiness. She had a home to go back to, as Davos did, but it did not include warm arms and smiles. Those there respected her and did as she bid but  sometimes they were no more than pieces of furniture themselves, however much she tried to learn about them. Arya and Bran cared for more than her title but she could never be certain she’d find them awaiting her. 

‘Do not stray too long.’ She lectured. ‘ Tullys say family comes first.’  _ Family, duty honour.  _

_ ‘ _ Wise words indeed.’ 

_ Aye, so wise my mother and brother died for them. I prefer the Stark words. Something worse is always coming – that has never been wrong.  _ She felt the chill of Winter in her bones, even in the warmest of spring days. She smelt the perfume of death wherever she walked. 

_ Something is coming. _

The air felt different. She sucked in a great breath but it lay heavily in her lungs. As she woke, she blinked away the morning sun and pushed herself up onto her elbows. 

Daenerys Targaryen hadn’t dreamt. The visions of thrones and crowns and glory had left her behind. She had slept, tossing and turning on the borrowed bed, without an image beneath her eyelids. 

The room she was in was small and barely decorated. It was all the space left in the keep, she knew, but that didn’t stop her from resenting it every night and every morning. It had been a week since the moot was held and a day since Margaery Tyrell’s proud coronation. No time had been wasted in arranging the event.  _ Because they planned it advance.  _ Daenerys had turned up to watch the golden gowned Queen ascend the keep steps, matching gold crown of twisting vines sitting neatly upon her head. She’d smiled and clapped with the rest then took the first opportunity to retreat back to the bed she hated. 

_ Get up.  _ She scolded herself for sitting in that same bed, measuring her regrets against  eachother . For the first time, she had she plans for the day, and she was not in the mood to miss her chance to leave the keep. 

Tyrion met her by the litter. Without the crown on his head, he looked a different man. He smiled often but his eyes didn’t. Something was missing. 

Behind him, always looking her best,  Missandei beamed at her Queen. The young woman was, by far, the greatest thing she had found once more in King’s Landing. Her joy at seeing her Queen again had yet to cease and Dany could at least revel in one person’s happiness. They sat in the litter and let the little trap take them down into the city. 

There was a great amount to see in King’s Landing, more than she knew, but it was the markets that had been the greatest temptation. She’d always enjoyed the little focuses of interaction. Men and women from across the seas would meet with locals to trade in goods. Great Lords and Ladies would sweep down from their ships and mingle with commoners and, every now and again, a Dragonqueen took their ranks. 

A growl called down from the sky. It didn’t sound like the usual cries of  Drogon . She reached forward and parted the curtains of the litter and gaze upwards into a swirling grey sea. In another moment, the tapping in the roof and windows alerted them all to the coming of rain. 

‘Bugger.’ Tyrion cursed under his breath. ‘Shall I tell the driver to turn us around?’ 

She looked again outside. If she craned her neck, she could just see the harbour appearing in front of them. 

‘No, we’ve survived a lot worse than rainfall.’ 

The marketgoers had the same idea. While some children could be heard complaining of their wet clothes and hair, most went about their business as if nothing was amiss. Daenerys, her two friends close by, took to the streets as if she was back in Essos as a child, eyes darting around at every new thing. 

Every sight was a distraction. That was the real lure of the markets. They could wander around monuments and hear the histories but she was sure her mind would wander. Now the vendors shouting their wares, the travellers rushing from stall to stall and the animals snapping at passers-by were enough to relieve her head of its stresses. 

Except it could not be so simple. 

‘Hail Queen Margaery.’ A voice above all others cried out. At a stall to her right, a large-built man with purple-dyed hair was calling out to the shoppers around her. She pulled her hood over her head and approached. 

‘Hail the new Queen, hail the House of Tyrell.’ He repeated. ‘Why not commemorate such wonderful days.’ He pointed to plates and cups painted with the date of the coronation. There were also coins depicting the Rose and the Queen’s face on each side. She picked one up and turned to over and over and over. Every turn she expected to see another face staring back but every time it was Margaery Tyrell looking back, mocking her. 

‘Would you like it, m-lady?’ The hulking man cast a suspicious eye over her. She placed it back down on his table and took a step back. 

‘No, I will not. I will never.’ 

She found Tyrion browsing at a fabric stall. His hands were laid on a fine piece of dark silk that rippled with colour when the light passed through.  Missandei was nearby, carrying a small bag at her hip. She tried to look herself – the wares were all fine, sourced from Essos, she supposed – but her ears could not be saved from the whisperings all around her. 

‘Margaery.’

‘The new Queen.’

‘House Tyrell.’

_ They are doing this to spite me.  _

Holding her tongue and smiling wasn’t her strong-suit. It never had been. Yet now the time had called for her to be quiet and reserved. Her true feelings, the ones that bubbled up within her like bottled  dragonsbreath , they were far too dangerous to release in King’s Landing. Her ears were not the only to hear all. Even muttering her dissent to Tyrion or  Missandei came with its risks. The keep had, in days, been turned completely towards Margaery, leaving Daenerys fighting for her cause alone. 

The cause was not dead, no matter what everyone seemed to believe. She could accept being denied the throne just a little longer, it wasn’t like she hadn’t already waited, and now getting out of the city would be her chance to start afresh. Going back to Slaver’s Bay had cost her the chance to seize the crown but she did not regret what she’d done.  _ Margaery has never freed thousands of slaves. She has probably kept more than she releases.  _

Dragonstone was the answer. The  ancient keep of her ancestors was cold and unwelcome to her, but it was all she had. Its stone walls and the constant sharp winds that battered the rock it sat upon were cruel, merciless, but they were the closest she could get to a home. She would remain in the capital just a few more days, for her image, then they’d depart across the Blackwater and put the whole façade in the past. 

‘Lady Targaryen?’ A small voice called out from behind her and something tugged at the back of her skirts. She spun around to find a young girl, no older than ten, carrying a bunch of wildflowers. A satchel was swung across her slim frame and it jangled when she walked. 

‘Yes?’ The girl was of typical Westeros stock. Not too tall or broad but lithe and wielding quick, knowing eyes. 

‘It  _ is  _ you.’ She looked up with deep brown eyes that she had yet to grow into. 

‘Yes.’ Dany looked about them. She wondered if this girl was alone. She was old enough to walk about the streets without her parents but the markets were busy and the perfect place for young girls to be snatched up by grubby hands. ‘Are you selling the flowers?’

‘What?’ She looked at her hand as if this was the first  time she had seen it. ‘Oh no, these are mine. We do have goods to sell, if you’d like a look?’ 

She was surprisingly  well-spoken; Daenerys couldn’t help but be charmed. 

‘ Of course I will.’ She took the girls hand and let herself be led away. Daenerys Targaryen was no fool but she saw no danger in walking across the market. People drifted all around, guards stood feet away, watching on and, as of yet, no strange man had offered her wine to test. 

The stall they reached was nearer the end of the row of stalls the harbour boasted of. Several men and women lingered nearby, pawing through the various goods arranged neatly before them. From what she could see, her family were in the business of fine silks. She could see scarfs and handkerchiefs picked out in brilliant shades of red and blue, and a veil, embroidered in delicate white lace. Despite its beauty, her eyes were drawn by a simple silk shawl of black and red. It bore no  sigils yet the colours of her house sat before her proudly, beckoning her to touch. She let her finger glide along the fine fabric and smiled. 

Men had once told her that the people of Westeros spoke secret prayers and stitched secret banners for the  Targaryens . Mormont had told her these were nothing more than fancies aimed to please her yet, even in the simple design, she saw herself reflected and began to wonder-

‘M’lady.’ The owner of the stall, a small but well-dressed merchant who shared the young girl’s auburn hair, bowed to her as he caught her eye. ‘May I say m’family were most disappointed when we heard the news. We’re dragon people, all the way back.’ 

‘Thank you.’ She spoke quietly, ignoring his expression of pride that suggested he was looking for some kind of reward for his loyalty. She turned the shawl over in her hands a few more times, admiring the handiwork. 

‘You like that one? You can have it.  M’wife sewed it. She’d be overjoyed to know you wore it.’ 

She looked it over again. Such simple fabric was so innocuous –  _ what harm is there is a piece of silk?  _ Missandei had already purchased some material and Tyrion was looking at some too,  _ why should I not have something of the city to take to the dread keep with me.  _ She nodded to the salesman and reached into the pouch at her waist. Despite his protestations, she dropped a silver piece on the table and slid it towards him. With many thanks, he took it and pocketed his profit as she swept the light material about her shoulders. 

With a nod to the young girl who had brought her there, she made her way back through the crowds towards her company. With her hood pulled up, people had not paid her much attention yet now, as she walked, she caught a couple of eyes. 

‘Daenerys!’ 

The cry was drowned out by a grumbling from above. For a moment she feared the sky was being torn apart above them. When she looked up, however, she found  Drogon beating the air furiously with his wings, smoke escaping from his flared nostrils. He dropped lower towards the ground and landed with a thump that could be heard for miles. The market goers pushed against  eachother to get far enough away from the dragon but keep close enough to see what was happening. 

_ What is it, my child? _

Drogon was bristling, his body heaving as he crouched low to the ground, his great eyes fixed ahead of him, just past her. She swung around and felt the air catch in her lungs. 

The crowd had peeled away to give her space but not everyone had joined them. Three men had stood their ground, each with a short, poised blade in hand, each with dark eyes set on her. The closest to her, a man of middling stature with a slit straight down one eye to his lip, held his dagger out towards her, mid-cut. Yet he’d stopped in his path and the tremble of his mouth told her  Drogon had been enough to make him hestitate. 

Her hand dropped down to her sword belt, and, in an unpractised move, she unsheathed her sword and held it out towards the three men. They were close enough to feel Lightbringer’s heat, she knew it by their changed expression. She held the blade up so its point sat at the first man’s neck. 

‘Who sent you?’ She demanded. The three remained stunned silent. From the back of the crowd, she spotted  Missandei and Tyrion push through and enter the clear space. The two men jumped slightly when they both felt the cool metal pressed against their back. 

‘I only need one of you to tell me.’ She looked between the three of them, one, a sandy-haired youth, trembled more than his brethren. ‘I will spare the one of you that does.’ 

The three remained in perfect silence. The heavy sword was difficult to keep up but she forced her arm to hold its position and gritted her teeth against the ache in her arm. 

‘Tell me or I will feed each of you to my child, one by one.’ The trembling boy paled. She fixed her stare on him. 

‘We stand for the true ruler of Westeros.’ Daenerys almost jumped when the man from the front opened his mouth and spat out his words. He then did spit, a great glob that landed just short of her feet. Before she could react, his hands tightened around the knife his held and twisted it around. In a single, strong movement, he buried the blade in his own gut. 

‘No!’ 

As the first man tumbled to the floor, the other two copied his actions. The man she’d been watching did the deed with shaking hands but he too fell.  _ That is why he appeared so pale and sickly.  _

Sheathing her weapon, she took a slow step back. 

‘Dany?’  Missandei’s voice was quiet, even in the silence that had fallen on the  harbour . Only  Drogon’s huffs of breath reminded her where she was. 

‘We have to go.’ She took a last look over the three bodies piled before her, blood seeping into the cobblestones and spreading into every crack and crevice. She shook her hands off and let her legs carry her away. The crowd parted to let her pass. 

‘You should take that off.’ Tyrion called out from behind. He was just keeping up with the two of them. 

At first, she didn’t understand what he could mean but then it dawned on her. She took a fistful of the silk shawl and tore it furiously from her shoulders, discarding it to her side.  _ This city is still full of deceit, I cannot trust anyone.  _

Their carriages still awaited them just outside the market. They boarded silently and tapped the roof heavily for them to return to the keep. 

‘We cannot stay here.’ Tyrion was the first to speak. His voice was grave, his eyes darkened. 

‘I have spent my life running from catspaws, I thought those days were over.’ She sighed, watching the city flash by from the window. 

‘They’ll try again.’ He warned. 

‘I know.’ 

_ ‘ _ Who would want you dead?’  Missandei was sat next to her mistress, her hands clasped  together , nails digging into flesh. 

Daenerys almost laughed aloud. Once, assassins and spies had followed her in every footstep. She’d nearly grown used to their constant presence. In those days, the answer to  Missandei’s question would be, simply, ‘everyone’. 

Yet she had hoped those days were behind her.  _ I did, after all, save this city from its tormenter.  _ Things had not changed as she expected. The old dangers had not gone, they’d only slept, and now they woke to trap her in their clutches once again. 

‘Margaery Tyrell.’ She hissed. ‘She still fears me. She has barely spoken to me since the moot.’ 

‘You  _ are  _ the one with the dragon.’ Tyrion piped up with almost a smile. She found no humour in it.

‘And she thinks I will use him, so she sends men to kill me in the streets while she sits prettily in her castle.’ The heat was burning in every vein and was threatening to spill out from her. 

‘Well at least we can see her face when you return unharmed. Probably best not to start shouting accusations until we know for-’

‘We will not be returning to the keep.’ 

They both turned to look up at her. The fire of her family flashed behind her  eyes, her face was set in stone. 

‘Where do you suggest we go? You know we cannot go to Dragonstone?’ Her once-hand's voice had dropped, as often happened when he imparted harsh wisdom. 

She knew his meaning. Dragonstone was just across the Blackwater and though well defended, chances are they wouldn’t make it across the sea to get there. She had no men to her name and Tyrion could boast just a small number of loyal Lannister guards. Margaery had taken the rest of his household and Jaime Lannister had gone North with the Starks. 

‘I thought you said you didn’t want to flee?’  Missandei met her eyes. 

‘Tyrion’s right.’ She conceded after a pause. ‘They will try again. None of us are safe here.’ It pained her to admit that the city she had fought to return to, twice, was hostile to her once more. It was a blow to be rejected as Queen but to be murdered in the street? She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to form a plan. 

‘We take the horses and go. This afternoon.’

‘Where will we go?’ Tyrion repeated firmly. 

‘Away.’ 

The Northern company spent a week at sea on their journey from King’s Landing to White Harbour. Being spring, the air was calm and the seas even more so. They spent their time helping on deck, catching the sun, and laughing where they could. None of them could forget the dark cloud that hung over their sun-filled days but they chose not to mention Bran Stark’s abrupt warning. They’d face such problems when they reached dry land. Each one needed to the break. 

Their nights were equally joyful. Sansa recalled the trip she had taken from King’s Landing to Dorne before with a shudder. The choppy waves,  unfamiliar crew and uneasy feeling hadn’t done them well and she had prayed each day to speed their arrival. Now she wished for the exact opposite.  _ We are safe on the waters, the same cannot be said for the North.  _ In the nights at sea, they huddled for warmth in the captain’s rooms and spoke merrily into the early morning when sleep snatched them away. In their group, Sansa wasn’t a Queen, Jaime and Brienne were not  knights , and Arya and Gendry were not the heirs of Storm’s End. Still, when all had left her, she went to sleep feeling the pangs of all that happened. She stretched out each night for something to cling onto to and chase her thoughts away but they came, in their unrelenting tirade, and nothing reached out to her for comfort. 

‘White Harbour in an hour, Sansa.’ Ser Davos’ gruff voice called at her from beyond her door. The morning was just rising on the horizon but, expecting their arrival, she was already dressed and ready to leave. 

‘Thank you.’ She smiled as she opened the door to him. One of the ship hands pushed in and took her possessions away with him and she was left alone with the Onion Knight. He took her arm gently, as an uncle or grandfather would do to a young girl, and they walked together towards the top of the deck. 

‘W-what?’ 

As soon as the door to the outside was opened, Sansa was blinded. She took a step forward, though she could not see the deck beneath her feet and searched the open expanse. A great mist had fallen over the sea and had eaten up the Young Wolf in its devouring path. Davos, his eyes well-used to the sea-mists, led her towards the prow of the ship where Theon Greyjoy stood squinting. 

‘Sansa!’ He didn’t share her apprehension for landing North. ‘I haven’t seen fog like this since I was a boy.’ 

_ You’ve barely sailed since you were a boy,  _ she wanted to add. He’d grown up in Winterfell which was landlocked, never allowed close to the waters that could one day take him back to his homelands. He sounded genuinely in awe of the white blanket that covered them and she couldn’t help but smile at his flush. 

‘I’m surprised you can see anything at all.’ She replied steadily. When she looked out, the sky and the sea, melted together by the mist, seemed to go on forever. White Harbour may have been an hour away and would soon be in sight but she wondered if they would ever see it all. 

Theon kept his eyes ahead and she realised there was nothing more for them to speak off. Desperately, she wanted to speak of what they would face in the Harbour and in the North beyond. Bran’s warning had been so vague, she couldn’t be sure if they were running from, or into the threat. All they could do was hope for the former and the best way of not considering the  alternative was not speaking of it all. 

She found Arya and Brienne on the other side of the deck; or rather, she heard the sound of low grunts and shoes squeaking on the boards. Beside them, Gendry and Jaime watched on with amused expressions. 

‘Are you trying to kill  eachother ?’ Ser Davos saw what they were doing and shook his head dramatically. In another step, she too could make out her sister and Commander in their strange dance. 

Both held a knife each and were swinging and jabbing at  eachother through the mist. The first to strike true won a point, so she gathered, and the one to be hit won a new wound to add to the collection. No blunted training swords were available so they sliced and cut the air with well-honed steel. Both moved with an added air of caution that had made the spectacle so strange to behold.

‘Sleep well?’ Jaime moved in beside her as they watched on. It was impossible to tell who was winning. 

_ I tossed and turned all night. The moments of reprieve I had from that were filled with nightmares that left me sweating every time I woke. I saw Winterfell burn down. I saw Ramsay Bolton return from the grave. I saw Ellaria Sansa with a knife stuck between her death. I saw your brother and- _

_ ‘ _ I cannot complain.’ She smiled faintly, unconvincingly. He chose not to pry. Jaime Lannister had a way of not poking at a sore until it was needed. She had no doubt he’d ask her again later but, with White Harbour so close, he held his tongue. 

Arya faltered for a moment and her eyes were drawn to her sister as she dropped to a knee. Brienne fell upon her and raised her sword to hit deftly in the arm. Arya was too quick and, just as the blade met its mark, she rolled backwards out of the way and, in a single jump, her catspaw was sitting  at Brienne’s stomach. 

They clapped for the wild wolf as she straightened up and bowed for their applause. Brienne, spoke with a smile to Arya and a hand shake. The two fell into laughter and the Northern company  declared it was time to break their fast. 

‘Ships! Straight ahead!’

The sound of Theon’s voice cut through them faster than Arya’s knife. The laughter died away instantly and none could look at one another. Sansa was the first to move, racing back towards the prow and squinting to see what her Hand had spotted. 

He was right. In the distance, just breaking through the mists which were beginning to give, black shadows floated ahead of them. Even in the fog, she could make out the shape of great fluttering sails and wide decks.  _ War galleys.  _ She knew them by their shape. Travelling ships like the one they stood on were slim, better for quick travel and tricky manoeuvring. War galleys were designed to travel straight and cause as much damage as possible. She’d seen them before at the Battle of Blackwater when she dared peek outside the window. Their size had been their downfall as each one failed to turn enough to escape her husband’s chain trap. Briefly, she thought their own swiftness would allow them to escape unscathed but, in another few moments, she watched more dark outlines appear on the horizon. These were like the ghost ships of legends. She could only hope they were just as fantastical. 

‘Can you make out any sigils?’ She asked pointlessly. Even Ser Davos, beside her, was struggling to make out any signs on the ships. They were dark masses that were only getting larger. She wondered if they would see their small ship at all. She wondered if they’d just smash into them and continue on their way. The old knight shook his head and grumbled lowly.

‘I’ll be back.’ With nimble feet, she hurried back inside and ran towards her chambers. There, packed away, her crown sat neatly on a pile of furs. She was only planning to wear it briefly when they reached the Harbour but the tide had changed on them and her hand was forced. She slipped the circle of silver onto her head and took herself quickly back outside. By then, most of the crew, except the captain at his wheel, were crowded at the front of the ship, watching the ships approach. They were larger now and she could make out the masts sticking up into the sky from their middle. She could see the netted rigging and make out the shape of the dark wooden decks. 

‘Turn us around!’ She shouted towards the back of the ship. The three ships were closing in fast and she could see their formation as they approached; two ships would fall in on either side and the third would block them off from the front. Their only hope was turning quickly and escaping from behind. 

‘My Queen, there’s no time.’ Ser Davos urged from her side. She shook her head. 

‘I have not come this far to be capture by these-’ their  sigils were wrapped in the mists, all she could see was black material flapping in the wind. ‘Well, they must be pirates or something.’ 

‘These are no pirates. These ships are too fine.’ Being a pirate himself, Ser Davos was not to be ignored in such matters. 

She turned and met his eyes and saw the genuine confusion. He couldn’t place the ships, he was just as lost as the rest of them. 

‘Why aren’t we turning?’ The ship had remained still as the black behemoths drew ever closer. The wind was picking up, her hair splayed around her. ‘Theon?’

Her hand took himself from the prow and sprinted the length of the deck towards the wheel. The low rumble of arguing was just audible, followed by a great lurch as the ship bent eastwards. 

The black ships were relentless in their pursuit but at least they were making an effort to move now. She squinted towards the masts to make out the  sigils , they were still just too far away. The Young Wolf creaked and groaned as she was forced to turn but the sudden gusts were helping. The sails flapped overhead. 

Sansa prayed. 

The evening air was cooler than expected and it whipped across their faces as they surged through it. Tyrion clung especially hard to his mount, a strong chestnut stallion, as they thundered down the King’s Road with not a thought of where they were headed or what they were leaving behind. It had been a quick decision when the time came – it had to be – and before anyone could think of a better solution, they had ‘borrowed’ some horses and were kicking up dust as they flung themselves towards the city gates. 

He felt no sorrow to be leaving. There would be no teary goodbyes. He had long over-stayed his welcome in the city he’d seen and done so much in, he was glad of the chance to make a decisive exit, even if it was slightly more sudden than he expected. 

As they passed through the busy streets, passers-by jumping out of their way, he did think with a touch of melancholy of the thing he hadn’t had the chance to retrieve from his rooms. 

_ The books! Gods, all my books left to be pillaged by some  _ _ maester _ _ who doesn’t know their value.  _ His collection was extensive and included many particularly old editions he had taken great pains to preserve. The jewels and clothes left behind were  replaceable and changed too frequently as fashion dictated. His books never lost their appeal yet now he had lost them. He nearly crashed into a corner building as his mind wandered. 

If he had the chance, he’d have fetched a great deal more silver and food. They left with only what they’d brought to the market, which was less now that some was spent on fabrics once thought beautiful, now thought petty wastes of what little they had. They had no food either bar a small hunk of bread each. He could at least thank the Gods that he had the forethought to equip himself with a skin of wine and one of water. It still wouldn’t last long between the three of them and the few men he’d wrangled into travelling with them as guards. 

_ We’re bloody doomed.  _

What choice did they have? One set of assassins around one corner surely meant another further along. Even one more day spent in the city could be enough for a new group of catspaws to do their Queen proud. There were many ways of killing a person and a stabbing in the market place was only the first. 

So, they rode. They rode with their worries and fears but they rode nonetheless. 

Tyrion couldn’t help but cast a look towards Daenerys every now and again. She’d said very little since they left the litter and now her face was fixed ahead, her eyes bright and unblinking. 

When the  Dragonqueen returned to him, she told him there had been a change in her and he’d seen it too. She handled herself calmly and was even willing to submit herself to a vote instead of seizing the throne which she had every right to do. It came with a worry too. A rational Daenerys wasn’t the same woman who’d seized Slaver’s Bay. She wasn’t the woman who’d led Dothraki and she certainly wasn’t the woman they called ‘the princess who was promised.’ 

She wasn’t stubborn and brooding like the Starks, she was ambitious and always enthused. Daenerys Targaryen needed to be relentless to survive. He feared she’d lost her bite. 

Then Tyrion had seen that same sting in her eyes. She sat still, prostate and calm, yet her eyes burned and her could nearly feel the heat beating off of her. She hadn’t lost her fire, he had concluded, but learnt to better control it. Now she gritted her teeth and rode, holding back every emotion and letting it add to the fuel within. He pitied whoever would feel the full force of her unrestrained fury. 

‘Where are we going?’ He finally shouted. They’d been riding for at least two hours and night was falling. The wind was picking up too. He hoped there wasn’t a storm out to sea. 

‘North!’ She declared. ‘Sansa said we’re welcome, we can meet her on the road!’ 

‘No!’ He pulled his horse sharply stopped and, after a moment, Daenerys realised what had happened and tugged hard on her reins. 

‘What do you mean no?’ She wheeled her horse back a round and met him with dark eyes. 

_ Gods, maybe I’ll be the one to taste her flames.  _

The others had pulled back behind them. ‘We’ve not enough food to reach that far. Where do you intend to stop to find  some? Do any of us look like hunters? This is Margaery’s land; we cannot rest at an inn.’  _ If we stopped overnight at an inn or a Lord’s keep, word would travel fast of our location and we’ll be hounded out and hunted by the morning.  _

_ ‘ _ Then, what you’re saying is we’re hopeless! If you’d let me call  Drogon he could hunt for us but-’

‘We cannot risk being seen. A huge fucking dragon is no better than a flashing our names in the sky above us.’ He sighed. He didn’t mean to be so cutting but Daenerys’ rage was turning her blind. ‘If we rode hard North, we’d only reach Riverrun in three days and by then the horses would be half-dead and so would we.’ 

‘Sansa’s Uncle is Lord Paramount at Riverrun. He will shelter us.’ 

‘He is still  leagues behind us. That and he’s Margaery’s servant now, just like everyone else South of the causeway.’

‘We cannot turn back.’ Missandei offered with some force to hide the tremble in her throat. 

‘You’re right.’ He returned softly. ‘But we cannot just go on without a plan.’ 

‘I’m assuming you have one then?’ Daenerys challenged. 

_ Gods my father will hate me for this. _

‘Actually, I do.’ 

The Young Wolf was almost horizontal as it still veered out of the way of the incoming masses of black ship that had appeared out of the fog as if from nothing at all. Most of its crew and cabin stood on the deck, watching, mouths agape, as they were set upon. Sansa still had hope. She prayed to her Gods and they’d often listened. 

_ Turn, turn, turn.  _

The three ships sloshed the water around and it smacked against the hull, sending shudders through the timbers. Sansa reached out and clung to the nearest railing. She refused to move from her spot. 

_ Turn, turn, turn.  _

The wind was still high, it was pushing them along. But it was pushing along the mystery galleys too. Every fresh gust only brought them closer. They were seconds away. 

_ Turn, turn - _

The first ship had fully breached the mist and fog. It was even more majestic than she presumed. And now she could see the  sigils flying proudly on the top of the masts and across the sails. She blinked hard.  _ That doesn’t make sense.  _

The ship was emblazoned with golden stags, rearing like horses against their black backdrop. She’d studied the various houses of Westeros long enough to recognise the symbol of the  Baratheons yet the only person living who could wear the stag was standing beside her and had never stepped foot in Storm’s End. 

Her heart was stuck in her throat. She forgot how to breathe. She’d heard of ghost ships before but this was certainly very real, and not something out of one of Old Nan’s tales. 

The Young Wolf sat perfectly horizontal –  _ we're going to make it.  _

Her mind was so preoccupied by the explanations it tried to weave for the Baratheon ships, that she didn’t notice the wind drop out of the sky. She didn’t notice her ship slow down to a near stop. At  first, she didn’t even hear the cries around her. 

She  _ did  _ feel the force of the two ships colliding port-side. She did hear the sound of timbers splintering into thousands of pieces. She did feel the ground disappear beneath her as her the ship jolted and took on water. She landed hard across the deck, falling on one shoulder which instantly erupted in shoots of pain. Sansa gritted her teeth and pushed herself up. The ship sat an angle and was rapidly sinking further into the rushing water that lapped greedily at the wood. 

Her head whipped around once she stood, searching for others. Arya and Gendry were nearby and she caught sight of Ser Davos holding his side and groaning. She looked up. The third ship was about to cleave them in two. 

‘Jump!’ 

It was all she could think to do. There was nothing worse than getting caught in the sinking ship or being struck across the head with a bit of cracked wood and feinting in the  water. The icy waters were far from inviting but they had no other choice. 

No sooner had she shouted out the word, she heard the splashing of bodies smacking into the froth below. She resisting looking down to see them surface.  _ There’s no time.  _

She undid her sword belt and removed the crown from her head, sweeping the leather strap through it to secure it back to her hip. With little grace, she tore at her skirts that would be sure to weigh her down in water and cast a final look around. The deck had so swiftly changed from calm to chaos, she didn’t recognise it. No one remained but her as far as she could see. She pressed a finger briefly against the  direwolf broach at her breast, took hold of the railing with both hands, and swung herself overboard. 

She couldn’t even remember if she knew how to swim. 


	8. The Price of a Crown

‘You know, it’s been four years since I’ve been back here?’

A pair of travellers stood before the gates of  Sunspear . They wore the loose oranges and yellows of the  Dornish and spoke with the same lilt found in the capitol that stuck out among the dunes. Both shielded their faces from overly interested onlookers with hoods and masks, leaving only their eyes exposed. Both pairs were the same shade of deep brown, large and expressive but, at that current time, constantly flitting around. 

‘It’s not the same place you remember.’ The second cautioned. He was a few inches taller than the first and his hood allowed just a glimpse of sun-kissed hair that grazing his forehead. His hand rested on a curved blade that sat at his hip. 

‘But it’s still home, brother.’ The first spoke. Her clothes encompassed most of her body in their flowing layers but a hint of a woman’s frame beneath could just be seen. She looked just like every else in the Southern lands, her skin deeply tanned and her hair a rich dark shade. The one she called brother turned to her, as if to say something, then looked back forward, shaking his head. 

‘Let’s just go.’ He sighed heavily. They’d travelled many weeks to reach the city but this was the first time they’d stopped for any reason beside sleep. He looked up towards the sandstone towers that vanished into clouds that had been the home of his childhood. Their perfect glaze was worn away, like an old plate, and he saw its brittle stone beneath. 

His sister righted her hood and took the lead as they passed under the gates towards the palace. She walked with her head high and her shoulders rolled backwards, but not a soul payed her any mind. The streets they passed through were busy with people at their own work, what did they care for the two newcomers with the familiar eyes? 

Two guards dropped their spears in a cross in front of the door. They’d gotten that far without being stopped but now scrupulous eyes watched them from the gap in their headscarfs. 

‘Get away with you.’ One spat at them, waving them away with his free hand. ‘This is no place for strangers. If you’re beggars, go to the markets.’ 

His sister looked towards him, he nodded, and she stepped forward. She raised her hands, sleeves trailing behind her, to her hood and dropped it from her head, letting her brown curls loose down her back. In another swift move, she unclasped the mask that covered her face and folded it neatly in her hands. She pursed her lips tightly and looked up to the  Dornish guards. 

‘Princess!’ One stammered, his hold on his spear faltered. They looked between  eachother , eyes wide and full of questions. 

‘P-princess Arianne,’ the second of the men stammered, ‘we apologise greatly for our rudeness. We did not know – we,’ he leaned in towards her, ‘we thought you were dead.’ 

‘For a time,’ she chuckled, ‘so did I.’ She flashed a brilliant smile towards them and the guards relaxed a little. Now he followed her example, letting his hood drop and removing his mask. Their eyes moved from sister to brother. 

‘Prince Trystane!’ 

The Martell siblings were led through the palace by armed guards. Now people paid attention to them. Every eye fell on them as they passed and bursts of chatter and whisperings erupted in the distance.  Trystane couldn’t revel too much in the joy of returning, his home still didn’t feel all that welcome.  _ And it won’t do until that witch is gone.  _

They were left in an open room where their father tended to hold his audiences. Wide, windowless arches let soft breezes into the space with was decorated with fine rugs and walls loaded with books and maps. He and his sister had spent a long time in those rooms himself, watching Prince Doran go about his business. Arianne was being raised to take her father’s place and he was raised to be a true Prince of Dorne. The guards left them alone and he let his defences drop away. 

‘What’s the plan?’ He dropped down on a low chaise, shrugging his bag from his shoulder and relishing in the relief the removed weight brought him. 

Arianne remained on her feet, pacing the floor in her worn sandals. She clasped her hands behind her back and looked ahead. ‘We kill her if we can. Take her prisoner if we must.’ 

‘And how do we do that?’ 

‘A knife through the heart is a good bet, although I always enjoy the long death one through the stomach brings.’

The siblings turned their heads.  Trystane had expected his sister to reply but the voice had come from behind, outside in the balcony. The door swung open as their hands drifted back to their weapons. 

‘Please.’ The intruder held up her hands. ‘I won’t hurt you.’ 

‘Obara?’ 

The  sandsnake stood before them in her usual leather garb, only missing the spear she usually favoured. She crossed her arms across her chest and lent on the doorframe. ‘You’re back?’

‘To kill Ellaria.’ Arianne spoke quickly, her hand not moving from the hilt of her sword. 

‘To return Dorne to its rightful ruler.’ He added. He chose not to stand; something told him the eldest of his Uncle’s children was being sincere. 

‘And that rightful r uler is you, cousin?’ She nodded towards Arianne with a smile. 

‘Yes.’ 

‘Where is Ellaria?’  Trystane asked. 

‘Hmm?’ Obara looked between the two of them. ‘Oh, she’s gone. Don’t ask me where. All she said was that she was getting her revenge. I can only assume that means she’s off to kill Sansa Stark.’ 

‘Fuck!’ Arianne swung around and beat a fist against a deep mahogany table. ‘And you didn’t go with her?’ She turned back around, nostrils flared and brow furrowed. 

‘I made the choice to stay. I want no part in her blood feud.’ 

‘Is Nym with her?’  Trystane asked again, letting his sister bristle in silence. 

‘Nym? Gods no. She got out as soon as she could. Last I heard she was in Kings Landing when the city fell.’ 

‘That’s the last time I saw her too.’ He added with a touch of sadness. 

‘Come with us.’ Arianne interrupted his melancholy with her short, sharp voice. Obara looked down. 

‘I can’t. She’ll kill me if I turn on her. You know that well enough.’ 

Trystane winced on his sister’s behalf. Arianne had been held captive for nearly three years before he finally freed her but they hadn’t spoken explicitly about that lost time. Once she’d eaten well for a few months and had her injuries seen to, she was in the saddle,  brandishing a weapon and waiting to take her revenge. 

‘She killed our father, your uncle. She killed my Ser Arys and she might as well have killed Oberyn as well.’ Arianne appeared unaffected. 

‘But she didn’t kill father, he died because of Sansa Stark.’ She persisted. 

Arianne scoffed. ‘He died in her service, that’s a different matter. Men die at war all the time, or did you not notice that? He volunteered himself as you and every other soldier does – with the expectation that their decision may be fatal.’ She shook her head. ‘That snake has sung her sweet song in your ear, hasn’t she? You won’t be moved.’ 

‘Arianne, I’m sorry.’ 

‘We’ll be leaving.’ She declared. At her word,  Trystane rose from his seat and took his place beside her. ‘If you find reality, we’ll be wherever the Starks are. I hoped better for you.’ 

With an almost empathetic look, the Princess swept away and out of the room.  Trystane followed swiftly behind, leaving Obara Sand alone in the audience chambers. 

‘You know where the Starks will be?’  Trystane caught up after his sister. 

‘No clue.’ 

‘She could be anywhere.’ 

Arianne stopped dead, her face inches from him. ‘That is why we go quickly. You’re right, Sansa could be anywhere but, no matter where they are, Ellaria will find them and take her bloody revenge. I’ve no time to wait around for Uncle’s bastards to bring their heads out of their arses. Let’s go.’ 

He had hoped for a night on a featherbed and a warm, cooked meal, but he understood her hurry. Every moment Ellaria would be drawing closer to the oblivious Northerners.  Somehow, they had to beat her to it. 

‘Let’s go.’ 

Tyrion held the body in his arms. She fell limp onto the floor, like a rag doll, pale as a sheet and already feeling cold. Her arms were bent strangely so her hands reached hopelessly towards a neck decorated with red blotches that would soon be bruises. Her mouth hung lifelessly open in a silent, immortal scream. 

He was saying something but, from her vantage point at the side of the room, pressed against the stone wall, she could not hear. Around her, other figures, who’s faces she could not see, watched on in their wordless grief. Another body laid across the room, but no one mourned for them. 

Sansa gripped her arms around herself. She could see each puff of breath in the air, hanging like sombre clouds. Her body was covered in a thick gown, lined with soft fur, yet the cold had still seeped inside her bones. Her teeth chattered, leaving a ringing in her skull, and she pulled herself even tighter. 

She realised she did not know who was laid out before them. She could see her features, plain as day, but she didn’t recognise them. She pushed passed the crowd, which separated for her, and stood over the Lannister Lord and the body he cradled. Her face was now obscured from view as his hands gently pressed her eyelids shut. At least now she could hear was he was saying. 

‘Sansa, sansa, SANSA!’

She was awake. She sucked in several large  gulpfuls of air and let her eyes adjust to the sudden brightness. She was in a sitting position, pressed against a wooden chair, and she could just feel the slight pressure of manacles around her wrists and ankles.  _ Shit _ -

She recognised the room in an instant. She was seated in the rooms of Lord  Manderly at White Harbour. She’d spoken with the late Lord and his successor several times in those chambers but never before had she done it restrained. 

_ It was a dream.  _ The strange vision still lingered behind her eyes. It had seemed so real, yet unlike anything she had dreamt of before. She saw the faceless people around  her, she felt the mournful tension in the air, she felt the chill spreading all over her. 

No, the chill was real. She shivered at the memory of what had happened. She could remember their ship being destroyed. She remembered jumping into the waters and just managing to fight to keep her head up. Then the rest was lost to her. Somehow, she had found herself in White Harbour, tied to a chair, on her own. She looked down. They’d taken her dagger but her crown remained strapped to her, through the strap of her belt. 

The door flew open and her head jolted up. 

Three figures entered the room, two men and one young woman, probably around Arya’s age. The men were of no interest. They were in the forties or older, by their deep-set wrinkles in their foreheads and their greying hairs, and they fixed her with narrow, dark eyes. The girl, of light brown hair and blues eyes, was different. Even from across the room, Sansa could see the scarring that covered half the girls face, winding like snake skin from her neck to her temples. 

They fell into a line before her. Each wore a Baratheon stag embroidered to their doublets (and the girl’s tunic). 

‘Who are you?’ She hissed, desperate to have the first word. Her eyes darted between them in search for some point of recognition. She always thought she was good with faces, but these gave her nothing. 

‘You are in the presence of Stannis Baratheon. King of Westeros.’ The first man in the line spoke. He was the eldest, a long beard hiding what she guessed were heavy jowls. 

Sansa stifled a laugh. 

‘What is funny?’ One corner of his mouth twitched. 

‘Stannis Baratheon has been dead many years. He was killed by the Bolton forces during a storm in the North. His own men saw him struck down.’ There was a table before her, she rested her bound hands on it and leant in. ‘Now, I am,  _ truly _ , a Queen and I order you to free me and explain yourselves.’ 

‘I can do one, but the other is impossible.’ 

The second man remained silent. His hair, cropped close to his scalp, showed signs of greying but its black lustre had yet to give up. His beard too, though speckled with white, cast an impressive shadow across his strong jaw. His skin bore a slight tan but his reddened nose suggested he was more prone to burning. He’d been overseas or far in the South, she guessed- the sun was never bright enough to do such damage in the North. She looked him up and down but found she had nothing to say to the stranger. 

The first man continued. 

‘The story you were told was not told in bad faith. Men did see the honourable king wounded, but he did not die. Some of his most faithful servants found him and carried him to safety. He rested with his daughter in seclusion before making the choice to travel to Essos where he would be safe for a while.’ 

The second man narrowed his eyes at the description. She could see him holding back whatever he meant to say.

‘Then why has he returned?’ She did not look at the man who had spoken. The one in the middle was too intriguing. 

‘To reclaim what is his. Stannis Baratheon is the rightful King of all of Westeros yet you  _ women  _ have stolen it away from him.’ He’d grown slightly red about the face and spat out the last words. 

The man beside him raised a black gloved hand and opened his mouth. ‘Stop talking before you embarrass yourself anymore. She is already our captive, there is no need for such talk.’ 

He took a step closer, the table being the only thing between them. She raised an eyebrow. 

‘Stannis Baratheon, I assume?’ 

‘That’s King S-’ The first man raised a finger. 

‘Be quiet!’ His master raised his voice. He did not shout but his tone was enough to silence the room and send chills through her. 

‘Sansa Stark.’ He did not smile. ‘We have many things to discuss.’ 

There were no greetings, no explanations, just a firm glance and a hand curled into a fist. The first man understood the hint and took himself from the room. The younger girl stepped back towards the door but an arm and a quick glance told her she was to stay. 

‘You truly wish me to believe that you are Lord Stannis? What you say could be true but, also, could be the work of any fool with enough imagination. I’ve never seen Stannis Baratheon before, how can I know that you’re him?’ 

The door opened to answer her question. From it, a guard plated in steel tempered in blacks and golds thrusted in his arm and, with it, Gendry. Her sister’s betrothed was dressed in the same clothes he had been on the ship but had been stripped of his weapons and bore a  sticking purple bruise across his right eye. 

‘Gendry!’ For a moment she forgot she was bound and tried to stand reach out towards him. 

‘Sansa!’ A small smile broke out on his lips. Her concern was evident. ‘I’m fine, don’t worry about me.’ 

‘Tell her, Gendry.’ The grey-man spoke up, interrupting their brief reunion. ‘You are the only one out of your sorry lot that has ever seen me. Except from that big woman but she’s already tried to gut me twice.’ 

Gendry raised his eyes to the man stood before them as he was pushed down roughly into a chair. Sansa watched on as his face changed, his blue eyes lightening up with recognition then his mouth opening and closing with questions. 

‘It’s Stannis.’ He just audibly mumbled. 

‘Stannis Baratheon is dead.’ She reminded with a touch of urgency. 

‘That’s him.’ His voice grew louder. ‘That’s the bastard who tried to drain my blood for his magic tricks.’ 

‘That’s all I needed, take him back.’ The guard who had shoved Gendry in wrenched hold of him again and took him towards the door. Stannis waited until it was shut again before raising a brow. His cold blue eyes had never left her. ‘So?’

She breathed through her nose. ‘What do you want from me? I can almost guarantee I won’t give it.’ 

There were several chairs around the room but he stood as still as ever. Sansa wasn’t sure she could even see him breathing. 

‘I want what is mine.’ 

‘And by that you mean Westeros? The two thrones that have been  _ stolen  _ from you?’ 

‘Yes.’ 

She sat back in her chair. ‘I pity you – the both of you. How long have you fought for that hunk of metal? How many men have died for what is ‘yours’?’

‘Your father supported me to take Robert’s crown.’ 

‘Yes, and he died because of his efforts. Your point?’ She sighed. The great black stag did not move an inch. ‘My father was a great believer in things following their proper course. Winter always comes and the succession should always be followed. I was raised to think the same way. When Robert died, the Iron Throne was yours to take. My father was right. But it was  _ you  _ who squandered your chances, you who fixated on the exact details to the point where you found yourself without allies and without a hope.’ 

‘My father has never made such mistakes. It was people like you that held him back.’ For the first time, the young girl to his side spoke.  _ Shireen Baratheon, the girl who caught greyscale in the cot. All grown up but still a child.  _

_ ‘ _ Do you recall meeting my mother up on a particularly gusty hill one morning?’ She ignored the young Baratheon’s interruption.

‘When I parlayed with her and Renly. Yes, I do. What has that got to do with anything?’

‘You wouldn’t treat with my mother. Robb offered you support but you wouldn’t take it because you couldn’t give up the North. He had already been named king, his people already though themselves independent but you couldn’t give it up. That was your downfall. The two of you could’ve taken Westeros in a matter of months. You could’ve blown the  Lannisters to their Gods and taken to your own kingdoms to retire. Instead my brother was murdered at a wedding feast and you’ve lived in hiding and insignificance.’ 

He rubbed his hands together in thought. 

‘That doesn’t mean I can’t try again now.’ 

‘But you’re going to make the same mistake, aren’t you? You’ve already said you want the North. That puts me in a position where I could never support you. If I was willing to, which I am not.’ 

‘And if I let the North alone?’ It seemed to physically pain him to say the words. 

‘Then you’ll still fail. My father was once right, that the throne was yours, but it’s too late now. Things have changed. The people of Westeros have chosen their ruler. You could never have their loyalty if you disrupted what has been put in place.’ 

‘I don’t need their loyalty. If they are disloyal, they will be killed.’ 

_ A ruler should be loved, not feared.  _

Sansa smiled. ‘You will never get that far, Stannis Baratheon. Your best chance is to go back to Essos and live out your life in peace. I’ll even forget that you were ever here.’ 

Now Stannis laughed. It was not joyful and he did not smile. It was a low, dry chuckle that dripped in irritation more than amusement. 

‘You know I would never do that. I fight for my daughter’s  birth-right , just as you fought for your own.’ 

‘Yes, my birth-right to Winterfell. This-’ she gestured to her crown sitting at her hip, ‘-I did not ask for this, I did not seek it out and I did not fight for it. What birth-right is it that you fight for, exactly? You’re not the only Baratheon in the realm anymore. Gendry’s been legitimised in front of Gods and men. If we’re going from Robert’s line, he’s Lord of Storm’s End and he’s what you call the true King. Do you know why he doesn’t seek to be King? Because he knows that it would be foolish. The people have put the days of your brother long behind them. It’s time you do the same.’ 

‘You’re insolent and a fool.’ He spat out in a sudden burst of fury. He quickly righted himself and returned to his stoicism. 

‘Maybe I am, but I’m telling the truth. Your time has passed. Frankly it passed when you had your own brother murdered. If you remain here and keep me prisoner, there will be war. Save your daughter the pain and leave us be.’ 

She watched him clench and unclench his jaw like a beast crunching through bones. He and Shireen shared the same piercing look. 

‘I won’t keep you here.’ He relented after a moment of consideration. ‘You and your people can walk free, if you do me a service.’ 

She scoffed. ‘What makes you think I would do anything for you? Have you not heard a word I’ve said?’ 

He breathed to steady himself. ‘All I need you to do is what I’m sure you’ll be doing anyway. Return to King’s Landing and inform their new Queen of my presence. I’m not in the mood for travelling too far South and launching another siege. We’ll fight where I chose, so I need you to ask for her help.’ 

‘What’s stopping me from heading home and raising my own men against you. You’ve invaded my land, I would have the right.’ 

‘Your armies are a thousand leagues away. They cannot help you here. We’ll leave you at  Maidenpool , Blackwater is too much of a risk, and you can make your way to the city. You can try to return North, if you wish. But you won’t find passage through the causeway and my ships will be guarding the waters. Unless you bring Margaery’s army, you won’t be reaching Winterfell until Winter actually returns again.’ 

Her eyes widened, out of her control.  _ He’s taken Moat Cailin.  _ The causeway protected the road that led from South to North, built when the Kingdoms were separate before and invasions were a real threat. She could believe Stannis had taken it, as it never needed to be heavily defended.  _ I have barely a man to my name. We’ll be slaughtered if we try to pass.  _

_ ‘ _ Yes.’ He smiled, ‘you understand now what you have to do?’ 

She held onto her composure although she felt it slipping away and a familiar nausea returning. ‘What makes you think Margaery will take notice of me? Why would she help me?’

‘Because she was your hand?’ He replied somewhat stupidly. 

_ He doesn’t know about me and Margaery. That’ll be an interesting surprise for him.  _

_ ‘ _ I’ll just go to Daenerys Targaryen. Her dragon will decimate what you have.’ 

‘Hmm.’ He smirked towards her, a glint of something strange in his eye. He almost appeared to find it  humorous . ‘You’ll leave and seek help or trap yourself in the South forever. The choice is yours.’ 

_ If the choice is between death and survival, there is no real choice.  _

_ ‘ _ We shall see.’ 

Stannis Baratheon made good on his word. The next morning, after being fed and offered changes of clothes, the Northern company found themselves on yet another ship. The  _ Young Wolf _ had become part of the sea and the borrowed galley was far less welcoming. Two weeks later they were in  Maidenpool , nothing to their name, gathered around a table in a  harbour -side inn. 

The company that had travelled South to the capital for the moot had been greatly diminished, even with Jaime Lannister and Arya and Gendry’s arrival. Half of the ship’s crew didn’t surface and the Baratheon’s didn’t bother to haul any Stark men from the waters. Then there was Theon. 

Before the war galleys with their black sails had struck the  _ Young Wolf _ and cleaved her in two, Theon Greyjoy had been at the helm, swinging the ship around to give it a chance of escaping the clutches of their pursuers. When they’d jumped, Sansa hadn’t seen him on the deck or in the water. She remembered treading water until her legs ached, she remembered finding Jaime and Brienne and deciding to chance it and swim towards land but she couldn’t remember him.

No one else had seen him either. Bodies washed up the next morning, and Stannis allowed them to look through them before they set off on the ship. Her brother’s childhood companion and her Hand were not among the water-logged ranks. 

_ He has been returned to the sea. That is the Greyjoy way.  _

They sat around the chipped wooden table, the largest in the keep, each cradling a tankard of bitter, thin ale. Sansa held hers in both hands and took small, careful sips between thoughts. No one had said anything since they sat down and no one wanted to be the one to start again. They hadn’t discussed the Greyjoy prince aloud, but she felt the mourning in the heavy silences. She bit back the tears in company and said her prayers through sobs in her cabins. She prayed to the old Gods for his survival and she prayed to his Drowned God for his soul. 

_ How will I tell Asha? Gods, how will I tell Jeyne?  _ She couldn’t think about it, so she tried her best not to. The problems at hand, therefore, became fortunate. Every obstacle they faced, and there were many of them, provided a distraction from her grief but they could never wipe it away completely. She’d begged for no more death, but, as usual, it followed her obediently, a loyal dog that stuck at her side no matter how many times she kicked it. 

There wasn’t much she could be certain of, but one thing remained clear; they were stuck. The North was shut off to her and she’d been told to seek help from the South yet her brother had told her specifically to leave King’s Landing as soon as she could. Stannis had stretched to a bag of food and a skin of water each but they had very little to barter for horses or even for a night’s rest. She’d caught sight of herself in the water as they reached the harbour. The face staring back at her wasn’t one she recognised. She wasn’t a queen and she didn’t even look like a Stark. Only the crown she clung to offered any kind of proof of who she was and even that wasn’t concrete. Jaime had old friends, at the very least, but he also had enemies. She finished the last drop of her  pisswater ale and looked around at the sorry lot in front of her. She sighed and scraped her chair legs along the stone floor as she stood. 

‘We need to find somewhere to stay, and soon. Stannis Baratheon wants us to plead Margaery but we agree that that will be a waste of time.’ There were nods of assent around her. ‘But there has to be some Lord who would be willing to help us? Three years is not enough for them to forget what we did for them.’ 

‘What do you propose?’ Jaime, hands flat against the table next to his long-emptied cup, looked over her. He looked tired. They all did. 

‘I’ve been thinking, often, and what’s best is that we use what we have. By that, I mean Gendry. 

Gendry looked up from his cup and Arya quirked her head to the side. 

‘I remember my father telling me the division between the Baratheon’s when Renly was given Storm’s End and Stannis had Dragonstone. He won’t care for that rock, I doubt he’ll ever want to step foot on it again, which is good for Daenerys, but the Stormlands are different. If he wants the South, he’ll seize them quickly. Gendry is the rightful Lord there, rightful Paramount of East too. He has to reach those lands before Stannis can.’ 

Gendry nodded but she could see a hesitation in his forced grin. She spoke directly to him. ‘Storm’s End is yours but, if you wait too long, it won’t be. Stannis wants that keep and the titles and, frankly, he’ll kill you to get them. If you’re already installed there with the people on your side, he’ll have a hard job making a dent. Will you do it?’

‘If you don’t, I’ll never speak to you again.’ Arya crossed her arms across her chest. 

‘Ah, that would be bliss.’ He chuckled. 

‘Then I’ll never fuck you again.’ 

His tanned face reddened and Arya sat back in her seat, satisfied. 

‘I’ll go. I’ll get those men and wipe that bastard from history.’ 

‘That bastard is your Uncle, remember.’ Brienne piped up with a hand raised in warning. ‘Killing him viciously won’t do you any good. His blood has been promised to my sword since he killed Renly.’

‘He’ll die in battle or by execution.’ Sansa spoke broadly. She cast an eye around, nobody had  anymore to say. 

‘And me?’ Arya nearly grinned. 

‘What do you mean? You’ll be staying with me.’ 

The she-wolf threw her head back in an inhuman cackle. ‘I’m bloody not. No offense sister, but I think I can do better that trudge along while you plead at Lord’s doors for bed and board. 

‘And what is it that you can do?’ Sansa knew her sister was talented, especially in sending terrible people to their Gods, but that did not make her strong enough to face an army. Arya reached down beneath the table and pulled out her knife, laying it flat before them with the hilt in Sansa’s direction. 

‘I can get North. There no way all of us, or even two of us, could sneak across the moat or find a way around.  But, if I can get a few good faces along the way-’

‘You could get across without the Baratheon’s knowing and reach Winterfell.’ Sansa smiled. Her sister’s plan was not so foolish as she’d expected. 

‘I’ll raise the banners and if you’ve got men in the South and North-’

‘We won’t need Margaery’s help.’ 

‘Wait.’ Ser Davos, who Sansa had forgotten had remained with them, dropped his ale to get their attention. ‘Why can’t your brother just call the banners, save his sister’s the trouble.’

‘Bran isn’t usually in Winterfell,’ Arya pulled a face, ‘he prefers spending time in trees pretending he’s a raven.’ 

‘Arya!’ Sansa cautioned, ‘we all know he’s not pretending. I’m sure if Bran could call the banners, he would’ve done so, which is even more worrying.’ She clasped her hands together. ‘You should go as soon as possible.’

‘How?’ Arya protested. ‘We have no horses and nothing to trade for them.’ 

‘I already asked at the stables, they won’t give their mounts away to Queen nor pauper.’ Brienne spoke glumly into her cup. 

‘And I wouldn’t expect them too.’ Sansa could understand their choice. To a stablemaster, horses were their family's survival. Giving so many away would be like casting silver into the ocean. They might as well just ask to have their guts opened and stomachs spill out in their laps. That didn’t mean is didn’t rile her that these men and women showed so little deference to her, but she held her tongue. 

‘You could sell that hunk of silver, that’ll get us an army’s worth of steeds.’ Jaime laughed dryly yet his eyes dropped down to the bulge in her cloak that enclosed her crown. He was being perfectly serious. 

‘I can’t sell it.’ She laid a hand on it like a mother rests their hand on the swell of their stomach. ‘It is a symbol. If they take my crown from me, I have nothing.’ 

‘But if it can get us to safety and those to where they need to be?’ Brienne spoke softly. 

‘I-I’ll think on it.’ She pulled up straight and forced a smile. ‘I need some sleep. We can talk more in the morning.’

_ I will not give away my crown. I will not exchange everything I have fought for for horses. I will not give away my crown.  _

‘ Yes, you will.’ The voice came from behind her. She’d reached her room, barely large enough for the straw bed, still biting back the bitterness at the mere suggestion that she let go of her crown because Stannis Baratheon sunk their possessions. 

She swung around on the spot and skin pale and warm, black waves tumbling around his temple, grey eyes like storms, Jon Snow stood before her. He leant on the hilt of his sword, the little direwolf peeking through his grip. Like every lost Stark she saw, she was almost certain he really stood in front of her. She could rest a hand against his cheek and count every strand of his hair. But when her skin touched his flesh, it was ice cold and, up close, his hair lacked the lustre of life. 

‘You can’t become proud now.’ He looked up towards her when she let him go. His eyes were set hard in his face and he spoke gravely. ‘You’ve come too far to get torn up about crowns and thrones and that shit.’ 

‘It’s not about that, it’s about the symbol.’ She removed the crown from her belt and held it  between them. He reached out a hand and touched its metallic peaks. ‘I can’t just give it up.’ 

‘Sansa, your people are still your people with or without some silver in your hair. Robb wore his crown at  Edmure’s wedding feast and Lord Bolton put his sword through him nonetheless.’ He put his hand on her arm and squeezed, ‘you know better.’ 

‘This is just what Stannis wants! If I don’t have it, I’ll just be Sansa again.’ She held back the shiver his touch  elicited . 

‘Is being Sansa so bad? Was it not just Sansa who killed her King, led an army across the country and rode into battle with her men? Have you forgotten her?’ 

Sansa shook her head but she had nothing to say in return. He was right, of course he was, but she wouldn’t admit it.  _ Bloody stubborn bastard.  _ She wasn’t sure which one of them she was directing that at. 

‘Of course, you could always sell that pin there.’ He pointed to the small  direwolf broach securing her cape in place. 

She let out a small gasp. ‘This was from father, I couldn’t.’ 

‘Fine. What about that dagger.  There’s some nice jewels some greasy merchant would love to pluck out.’ 

‘No!’ Instinctively she dropped her hand to her sword belt. She hadn’t gone a day without the knife at her waist since Tyrion gifted it to her before they escaped King’s Landing - the first time. ‘Tyrion gave it to me.’ 

Jon pressed his lips together. ‘Well you need some coin or a miracle. Make a choice, Sansa. They’re just as lost as you, but they need you to find their way.’ He reached forward and held her hands, luckily, they were gloved so they felt almost warm. In a blink, he was gone. 

Sansa reached the alehouse as the sun was rising on the horizon. She was met by the red-faced innkeeper who fixed her with his amber eyes, arms crossed across her chest. 

‘You better not be  leaving, your men have gone without settling fees. I don’t care what you call yourself – you drink m’ale, sleep in m’beds, you pay me.’ 

In one hand, she held a sack, so she held just one up. ‘I’m going to market now, I’ve got wares to sell, you can have what you’re owed when I get it. You have my word.’ 

‘Words  ain’t going to feed m’kids.’ He held up a soot-stained finger towards her. ‘You can stay here until the others return. If they don’t, I’ll take one of your pretty hands, or something else worth just as much.’ He cast his small eyes across her frame, lingering at the curve of her breast and hips. She clutched her bag tighter to her. 

‘You cannot threaten me, I’ve killed worse men than you.’ 

He smirked, ‘so you’re a killer as well as a thief? They’ll take your head from you. Why shouldn’t I fetch some guards to string you up?’

‘I’m a Queen, I’m a Stark and I was Lannister long enough to know the value of oaths and promises. I will pay you, but I need to take this out to the markets or you’ll never have what you’re owed.’ 

He tilted his head slowly, hungry eyes now fixed on the package she carried. It was kept in a simple sack once used for flour that she’d found discarded, but it was like he could smell the silver within. Her spare hand dropped to her sword  belt, her fingers wrapped themselves around her dagger’s hilt. 

‘Well, you could just give it to me then. Call it all settled.’ He smiled, showing several broken teeth. He took a step closer and reached his hands out like a desperate beggar.

‘You touch me, you die.’ She unsheathed the knife from its hold and held it up in front of her, its point directed at his reddened neck. The man carried on nonetheless, he might as well have laughed at her.  _ I am a Queen, I killed a King, saw a Queen die and fought the dead. Does that mean nothing anymore?  _

He took another step  closer, she kept her arm out. ‘Step back now while you still can.’ She was planning to give up her crown today –  _ but not to some oaf like him. Never.  _

She took a step forward, bent back her arm ready to strike. 

Someone grabbed her from behind. A mouth pressed close to her ear. 

‘Good to see you again, Lady Lannister.’ 

The  innkeep’s eyes widened in his glee as his prize was within his grasp. Sansa didn’t struggle. She smiled. 

‘So,’ the door swung opened and they stepped out into the light. It was a fine day, with only a light dusting of clouds in the sky. ‘What brings you to  Maidenpool ? Last I heard you were settled at Castle Stokeworth.’ 

Ser Bronn sucked his teeth and shrugged. ‘Crown Lands are alright but a bit shit. Once you’ve seen one field, you’ve seen them all. I decided to take a trip up here for the um-’

‘Whores?’ 

‘Legendary establishments like this one.’ He gestured back to the inn. 

‘ So, you’re bored?’ 

‘ Of course I’m fucking bored.’ He met her eyes. ‘Aren’t you?’ 

_ Gods I am.  _

They walked on in silence. Sansa spotted the back of Brienne’s head in the market, she called out to her. 

‘Ah, your Grace and- Bronn?’ Brienne frowned. 

‘Aye, it is. In the flesh. I just saved your Queen’s little life.’ He rested a hand on his hip. 

Brienne raised an eyebrow but Sansa could only nod to confirm his tale. 

‘Right, well-’ Brienne turned to her, ‘we’ve got enough for the inn, but barely enough for a single horse.’ 

‘Well you don’t have to worry about that ugly bastard.’ The once- sellsword touched the sword at his hip. 

Sansa couldn’t hide her smirk but it fell away quickly when she realised what Brienne was really saying. The crown in her arms suddenly weighed her down, like lead, and she felt as if every eye was on the small, unassuming package. In silence, she walked past her commander towards a  jeweller's shop that proudly boasted its intricate rings and broaches in the window. The owner inside barely looked up as she entered. She took the crown from her bag.

‘How much for this?’ 

The silversmith glanced towards her hands. His eyes narrowed and widened, looking over both her and her hands. At last he stood from his chair and stepped towards her. 

‘You’re selling?’

‘If I can get a good price.’ She didn’t want to appear desperate, even though she  definitely was. 

‘May I?’ He reached two well-worn hands out. She took a breath. 

‘Yes-’

The door swung open behind her and she turned at the sound  of heavy footsteps. 

‘Time to go, your Grace.’ Ser Bronn of the Blackwater beckoned her out. She raised an eyebrow. 

‘What-’ 

‘Horses are saddled, your sister wants to leave soon. Come on.’

_ Horses? _

The silversmith shook his head with a grumble and returned to his seat. She obliged the knight-Lord and followed him outside where, as promised, a small fleet of horses awaited them. 

‘Don’t worry, Sansa, you can pay me back when you’re home.’ He mumbled into her ear. 

‘You paid for this?’ She met his eye. 

‘Aye, couldn’t let you sell that pretty thing to someone from  _ Maidenpool _ . You don’t have to say anything. Yes, you owe me,  yes I am (once again) your saviour and yes I will keep reminding you. Just have a safe journey, wherever you’re going.’ 

_ I still have no idea.  _

They’d reached the one horse waiting for them. It was almost as black as Empress. Bronn helped her up onto the saddle. He turned away with a nod, back towards the market. 

‘Bronn.’ She called after him, wheeling the mare around. ‘You have your own mount, yes? Come with us, I can promise it won’t be boring.’ 

He spun around and looked at their small company. 

‘You sure you want me around?’ 

Jaime Lannister’s horse fell in beside her. ‘Not really.’ 

‘An opportunity to piss off Jaime fucking Lannister? Let’s go!’

An hour after putting  Maidenpool behind them, the Northern party came to a path veering North. Sansa hugged her sister tightly and watched as she rode into the distance. Another hour later, a path appeared leading South. Once again, their party grew smaller. When Gendry’s horse had disappeared, they didn’t start up immediately.

‘Any idea where we’re going?’ Bronn chimed. 

They hadn’t yet made a decision and she’d tried her best to ignore it but she knew the burden fell on her. She wracked her brains hard for anywhere that would have them but wouldn’t be put in danger if Stannis’ men followed them. Castle  Stokeworth wasn’t an option. The keep was in the crownlands, so would be close enough to convince Baratheon men of their intention of heading to the capitol, but they couldn’t maintain that lie forever and, if men came, it wouldn’t be able to defend itself.  _ I can’t put anyone else in danger.  _ She thought of  Harrenhall , the ancient, sprawling keep that set a curse of every one of its inhabitants. It was empty and could be well defended but its history of blood and betrayal was enough to turn her stomach. She needed safety and support but in her  heart she knew what she also desired. Men. She needed a keep in the South that would be willing to support her in the same way any Northern house would do. Yet, there were few Southern Lords who would do that for her. Their respect only went so far and her time in King’s Landing stood to remind her of her position beyond Moat Cailin. 

If she could reach the West, they might be able to hire a ship to take them North and seek help from the Iron Islands.  _ That’s what Theon would have suggested.  _ She wondered how deep Asha’s support of Margaery ran. Either way, a ship West would avoid meeting Stannis’ fleet. 

She knew where they needed to go. 

‘Jaime, a word?’ 

Two weeks later, five horses stretched out their exhausted legs in a set of unfamiliar stables. They greedily accepted the hay and oats passed to them by the stablemaster and his boy and sniffed at the others standing proudly in their stalls, heavy crimson covers thrown across their glossy backs. 

Their riders stood before the doors of the keep, fresh from long travel, parched and starving since their last meal, several days ago. The guards on the door in their golden armour looked over the newcomers strangely. There was recognition in their eyes but also confusion. A few words were exchanged between them and, eventually, they were led inside and into a large open chamber where they sat and awaited the Lord of the Keep. 

When they were left alone, the unspoken questions poured out. 

_ ‘Lord _ ?’ Sansa Stark spoke in a loud whisper. ‘I’m certain those guards said they’d fetch their Lord. Who would that be?’ 

‘Some cousin.’ Jaime Lannister was reaching for a flagon of wine and set up some cups for them all. ‘There’s enough of us.’ 

Sansa thought through the house lines of succession she’d once memorised. Jaime was right, there were plenty of Lannister cousins still left alive yet with Tyrion and Jaime not actually dead, she wondered which would have the courage to seize their home from them. 

Casterly Rock was one of the last places she thought she’d go but its position in the West and Jaime’s sway of the men left it the best possible option for them. She hadn’t thought that someone else was already calling themselves Lord. She tapped her fingers against the table and hoped this ‘Lord’ was both a light sleeper and not a complete arse. 

There was a knock at the door. Five sleep-deprived heads turned towards it. The oak creaked as it opened. 

‘Tyrion?’

‘Sansa?’

Bronn laughed. ‘You little bastard.’ 


	9. The Wolf in Lion's Clothing

‘What in the name of the Gods are you doing here?’

‘I could ask you the very same thing.’ 

Tyrion Lannister had been roused from his sleep,  which, luckily, he wasn’t too devoted to, to news of guests arriving and seeking an audience. He heard his brother’s name whispered and muttered around him but that had to be impossible. Jaime had gone North with Sansa, they might even be at Winterfell by then, if the seas were smooth, there was no reason for him to be at the Rock. 

Yet, staring him in the face, he realised there had to be. 

A thousand questions flitted through his head but his tongue tied itself and nothing came out. He looked across the room. Jaime, Sansa, Brienne, Ser Davos and Bronn stared back at him in equal confusion. 

_ Where’s the rest of your company – your sister, your hand? Why are you here, in the dead of night? Why the fuck is Bronn of the bloody Blackwater with you?  _

He shook his head.  _ Pull yourself together, fool. What can you see? _

They looked dishevelled – the signs of fast travel and few supplies. None of them appeared well-rested. They supped at the wine and small spread with eager hands. Great circles spread under their eyes. None of them carried packs with them, like most travellers – actually, he was wrong, Bronn carried a light satchel thrown across his shoulder. There was something that caught his eye at Sansa’s hip. A wink in the low light that he knew belonged to the sheen of silver. 

_ They’re fleeing.  _

He knew their flight from King’s Landing was a rushed one and not in the least planned, yet Sansa had had at least a few hours to arrange their belongings and some supplies. A different group faced him now. They were fleeing something else and hadn’t had the chance to gather their things. They’d moved swiftly and carelessly and somehow that had led them to his doors. He supposed it was no accident. They’d thought just as him when they arrived – the Rock hadn’t had a Lord in its keep in years, but it was still Lannister land. The people would care for a son of Tywin Lannister, and any guests he brings with him. 

But the fact that they were there could only mean one thing, and he shuddered to think it.  _ Something is stopping them going North.  _ The last time that was the case, Sansa Stark killed a King and went to war.  Why was she shivering in his audience chambers now?

‘What are you doing here?’ Sansa repeated. She pushed her chair from under her and stood to greet him, clasping their hands together in a strangely familiar action. He might her eyes, watery blue and reddened around the edges. 

‘Technically we’re not here at all.’ He tried to crack a smile but the frowns across the room told him they couldn’t face humour. 

‘Assassins were sent after Daenerys in the city – we couldn’t stay.’ 

Sansa cocked her head to one side. ‘Assassins, from Margaery?’

_ That is the common understanding but-  _

‘Daenerys believes so.’ He didn’t have the effort to explain the small seedling of doubt that he’d been cultivating. ‘Going to Dragonstone would be no better than inviting the assassins round for sweet tea.’  _ Of course, not even  _ _ Casterly _ _ Rock is safe, but  _ _ its _ _ better than anything else.  _

_ ‘ _ Danys’ here?’ She mumbled; ‘we have a lot to discuss. We were accosted on the way North. Can you wake her?’

‘It’s that urgent?’ It was a foolish question; he could see it in all of their expressions. He could guess it by the way that the news of assassins and plots had swept straight over their heads. ‘Yes of course.’ 

He leaned out the room and found a guard to fetch the Lady down. He doubted she would be sleeping, she didn’t often. When he returned, a portion of the room was  standing , stretching and yawning. He nodded in understanding and had another guard lead the newcomers to a set of room. When the room emptied, he found himself alone with the Queen in the North. She stood facing the dead embers of the fire, hands clutched around her back. He recognised that position – she held herself like that to stop them fretting as they always did. He took a careful step towards her and stood to her side. 

‘I didn’t think we’d see each-other again for – some time.’ He saw the ghost of a smile on her white face. 

‘The Gods have strange ways.’ He returned lowly. He knew he should revel to have her back in his company. Though he tried to forget it, he missed her soft laughter and beguiling company, but he hated that every time they met, it was due to some strife or horror. 

‘This isn’t the work of Gods.’ She spoke bitterly. ‘This is Stannis Baratheon.’ 

Tyrion choked on air. He nearly laughed but her serious inflection warned him otherwise. ‘Stan-’

‘Sansa?’ 

The door had opened without either of them noticing and he was interrupted by the slightly hazy voice of Daenerys. She spoke as if she was half in a dream and couldn’t believe what she was seeing. 

She took no time to take a seat and look at them both with a furrowed brow. ‘What is it – what's happened?’

The story flowed from Sansa like a river ten times the size of the Trident. At time, it gushed and swirled, breaking its banks, and at other times it petered nearly to a stop, before a great dip started it again. He barely opened his mouth as she unleashed all she’d seen and heard. He could barely think of a question. Daenerys stood beside him in the same state. Stoic and still in her concentration and confusion. 

When she was finished, there was nothing to be said. Sansa remained in her position by the long dead fire and he found himself sat closest to the window. 

‘ So, it’s war?’ Daenerys spoke up.

‘Yes.’ 

‘And we’re caught in the middle?’

‘Unfortunately, yes.’ 

_ Stannis Baratheon.  _ He’d hoped their clash at Blackwater would be the last –  _ I never liked the man, too calculating and never laughed at my jokes.  _ Stannis turned every meeting sour and blotted out any chance of a good time. Now he’d done the same. 

‘He didn’t think to stake his claim with everyone else?’ Tyrion circled back round to the table. 

‘I think he did.’ Sansa finally turned from the hearth and settled herself on a seat, arms laid out on the top. ‘The big black ship Asha Greyjoy saw on the morning of the moot? It must’ve been his. I imagine he heard Daenerys was staking her claim and decided to try a different approach.’ 

‘And so, his hatred of my family continues.’ Dany sighed in response. The  Baratheons were distant cousins of the  Targaryens but Robert and Stannis had nearly wiped them from the realm. 

‘ But, it means he still fears you.’ Tyrion tried to meet her eyes. Their violet was dulled in the dark room. 

‘What can we do?’ The Targaryen took no comfort from his reassurances. She already had one Queen after her, now another ruler stood in her way. 

‘Wait for Gendry and Arya. If we have men in the North and South-’

‘No.’ She spoke firmly. ‘I won’t sit here and wait while others fetch men.’ She took a breath. ‘What your sister and the Lord are doing will be of great use, but that doesn’t mean we have to sit here like old gossiping women. You must agree with me, Sansa.’ 

Sansa shook her head. She was drained of all energy. Her could see her eyes drooping. ‘I can’t say. If you can think of a way of removing Stannis – without sending a dragon over White Harbour and killing innocents- then I’ll follow you as I have done before. If not? I wouldn’t mind the rest.’ As if to prove her point, she yawned. 

‘It’s late.’ He stood from his chair. ‘No good decisions can ever be made on such little sleep. We can speak in the morning. Perhaps one of the others will have an idea.’ 

With a lacklustre nod, Sansa joined him and Daenerys followed slowly behind. They passed through the halls of his childhood and he stopped before a door. Dany had departed for her own rooms nearby, leaving them quite alone. He opened the door for her. 

He wanted desperately to speak. There were many things he needed addressing, thoughts he had yet to put into words that now sat eagerly on the tip of his tongue. But he knew now wasn’t the time. While he felt more awake than ever, Sansa walked in the dark towards the great bed in the centre of the room, not asking for a candle and not bothering to remove her outer clothes. He stopped her before she could collapse completely and helped her fiddle with the clasp the kept her travelling cloak together at the nape of her neck. He didn’t want her twisting in the night and accidentally choking herself. 

‘Thank you.’ She smiled faintly as she dropped her head back on the pillow, and let her eyes flutter shut. He tugged a fur over the top of her and told himself to leave. 

But he didn’t. 

There was something so enrapturing in her still features that he couldn’t help but linger where he stood. Her lips were pressed together in a neat line and her whole face, weary from the day, softened. Her hair, escaping from its braids, fell across the pillow at odd angles that made him think of a time not so long ago when he’d imagined what it would look like if she-

‘Are you planning on staring all night long?’

Her blue eyes flashed open, alert and alive in the moonlight. He was suddenly glad of the darkness that shrouded the subtle flush rising on his cheeks. 

‘I’m sorry – I didn’t mean-’

‘It’s fine. You have kind eyes. Most  men’s are cruel but yours are always soft.’ Her voice was barely louder than a sigh. 

‘I’ll take that as a compliment?’ He smirked. ‘But I’ll leave you to your sleep. We can speak tomorrow.’ He started towards the door but a hand shot out from beneath the furs and held him there in a firm grip. 

He sighed, dropping down and hovering above her. In a swift move, her moved a strand of hair aside and pressed his lips chastely against her forehead. He felt her inhale sharply at his touch. He couldn’t help but smile.  _ Dear Sansa- _

But he left. With a last lingering look, he shuffled as  quietly as he could out of the room and retreated to his chambers. He found them unnaturally cold and dark so stumbled towards the bed and wrapped himself up in a thick layer of furs. 

When Tyrion closed his eyes, he tried to see Stannis Baratheon and his men. He tried to draw a path that would lead them to victory. He tried to envision the last Baratheon brother finally falling to the death longed owed to him. He couldn’t see it. Everytime he tried to plunge his own knife into the older man’s thick hide, she was next to him, dagger drawn, her face taught with concentration. Cool and collected, she’d give him a wink of a smile and Stannis wouldn’t be there anymore. There was no Margaery Tyrell, no Daenerys, no Sansa. In the blackness that had suddenly engulfed him, he saw the yellow eyes of a stake pop open, the black slits in the centre dilated and hungry. He saw a flash of white fangs and heard the sound a great weight hitting the ground. It wasn’t his own, but it was nearby. He raised his voice but no sound came out. The snake’s eyes were now on him. He realised he was dreaming. 

When she awoke, Sansa felt the chill pass over her as soon as her eyes were open. She knew generally where she’d be – a room at  Casterly Rock, but she’d stumbled in the night before so hadn’t had the chance to get a good look around. She’d once thought that the onslaught of Lannister gold and crimson was excessive in King’s Landing yet now, she laughed at the idea. From the ceiling to the rug, the room shone in the House colours, complete with small roaring lions at every corner. The tables and bed were carved from rich, dark mahogany and their feet too, had been carved in the Lannister sigil. She pulled herself from her bed, dropping out her dirtied travelling clothes, and explored the room in just her shift. She’d awoken late, by the sun’s position in the sky, so she didn’t shiver when cool air grazed across her exposed skin. 

She was drawn to a chest of drawers on which a wooden box sat proudly. Unlike the rest of the room, it was well worn at every edge, it’s gloss faded where its owner had repeatedly opened and closed its little latch. With a careful finger, she unhooked it and swung open the lid. 

Inside were mostly letters. Pieces of parchment browning from age and thinning from repeated readings. There were small trinkets inside, hidden among the papers. She picked up a small stone set in perfect gold, attached to a tiny hook. A single emerald earring. She couldn’t find its match anywhere in the box. She turned to the first letter she’d picked up. 

_ ‘My dearest Tywin,’ _

Sansa nearly threw the letter across the room. She quickly scanned through to the bottom and was relieved to find the words,  _ ‘ever, Joanna,’  _ inscribed in a neat little hand. She looked down at the earring she held.  _ This is Joanna Lannister’s. These letters are from her. These must be her and Tywin’s rooms.  _

Trying her best not to think about the last owners of the room, she dressed herself in a stack of clothes left out on a chair. She supposed these were left for her by some light-footed servant. Grateful to cast her travelling clothes aside, she slipped into the fresh gown and, by habit, tied herself in on her own. She pinned the front pieces of her hair back by herself too – she was not completely incapable- and chose to leave the rest hanging loosely as was fitting for a spring day. 

As she smoothed out her skirts, Sansa took the chance to check herself in a long, floor-length mirror near the door. She looked more like herself again, she was glad for that, but there was something uncanny about the figure looking back at her. Being at  Casterly Rock, the gown she now wore was picked out in the same reds and gold that matched the entire room. She usually stuck to Stark, and sometimes Tully styles, so seeing herself in the new colours sat strangely with her.  _ If I'd have stayed married to Tyrion, this might’ve been what I wore every day.  _ When she’d been younger, her Septa had scolded her for embroidering onto red fabric because ‘it doesn’t suit the colour of your hair’. Yet seeing it on her in person, she couldn’t see her Septa’s logic at all. 

There was a knock at the door, she beckoned them in. 

‘Ah, you’re awake.’ Tyrion stood in the  doorway, she could see his eyes trail over her in inspection. 

‘What?’ She crossed her arms over her chest. 

He swallowed. ‘It’s just – I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in anything expect grey, or maybe a greyish blue.’ 

She stepped into the corridor with him. ‘That’s not true. I wore a  creamish colour to our wedding. I’ve worn purples and peaches and greens and -’

‘King’s Landing doesn’t count. You set fire to most of your wardrobe, didn’t you? You didn’t really have much choice what you were given.’ 

She remembered it well. It had been on the day her moon-blood had finally arrived. A wild fit seized her and she destroyed her mattress and most of her clothes to hide it away. Her handmaidens came to her, saying she had nothing to be ashamed of, but it wasn’t shame that drove her to a flight of madness, it was knowledge that her flowering meant she was a woman and that meant she could be married to Joffrey. It had been a waiting game that she had no control over. She was at the mercy of her body and, finally, her luck had run out. 

‘What’s the plan – today I mean?’ She finally spoke up. They had begun to walk together.

‘First, we must eat.’ She had to admit the thought of breaking her fast had come to her several times while she’d been dressing herself. ‘Then, we can get everyone together and see what they say. Sometimes a night’s sleep will do wonders for the imagination.’ 

‘Is that why you put me up in your father’s old rooms? So, I could be a vessal of his spirit?’ She asked, half in jest and half serious. She’d seen Tywin Lannister once after his death, and once was enough. ‘Why aren’t you in there, as Lord.’ 

‘Do I look like I want to anger his wretched ghost anymore?’ He chuckled dryly. ‘Besides, all my books and odd things were still in my old rooms here.’ 

‘Your childhood rooms?’ She grinned, ‘can I see them?’ 

He shook his head. ‘I can give you the grand tour later – I'll even show you the rooms I was scorned in the most.’ 

‘As long as I can also see the part of the library you’ve spent the most time in, and your favourite seat in the garden.’ 

After a moment, he nodded, and they continued on their way. 

She listened keenly to the voices around her, but no one had anything to say. Daenerys remained itching to use  Drogon to his full advantage which, to be honest, Sansa could understand perfectly. The dragon may not have been with them at  Casterly Rock but he could be in an instant and he could destroy the Baratheons in half the time.  But, she only had to be reminded of King’s Landing and Daenerys’ plan unravelled before them. Rhaegal was living proof that her dragons were not as invulnerable as they seemed and  Drogon was a large target – one sure bolt in the right spot and the great black beast would be grounded. Burning White Harbour and the Causeway also came with problems, namely, the innocent men and women still living there. 

After an hour of discussions, no plan had materialised but several smaller jobs presented themselves. Margaery Tyrell, Queen Margaery, may not send them any troops but the same couldn’t be said of Asha Greyjoy. The Iron Islands were technically part of the North but she and Asha had struck a deal when they returned North after taking King’s Landing. The Islands ruled themselves but did so in promised service of the North. They would not reap and reave in Northern lands and, if needed, they would give their fleet and crews to match to Winterfell’s holding. Ships were what they needed and Asha had plenty to spare. 

‘Wouldn’t it be easier to buy our way onto a merchant ship?’ Jaime sighed heavily nearing the end of their talks. 

‘It would.’ Tyrion responded, ‘but if they can be bought by us –’ 

‘Most of those merchants will be coming from the East, yes?’ Sansa added. ‘Stannis told me that’s where he’s been in hiding.’ She felt like she was being overly-paranoid yet she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep on the ship of a stranger who may or may not send her straight back to the man she was fleeing from. She didn’t wish to flee either – that was part of her concern. ‘The Queen of the North cannot be seen to run from an old pretender. If we go with the  Greyjoys , we go to fight, not to hide.’ Daenerys grinned in a kind of agreement that Sansa rarely saw. Brienne too, appeared more than happy to accept any plan that would result in Stannis’ death. 

‘I’ll write to Asha, there’s no harm, and in the mean time we can wait for word from Arya and Gendry.’ 

‘I agree.’ Dany dropped a hand flat on the table. ‘I’ve been running for too long. If we can take the dead, Stannis Baratheon doesn’t have a chance.’ 

_ Does that mean someone will need to sacrifice their selves all over again?  _ Sansa wondered.  _ The battle against the wights may have ended in favour of the living but it came at a cost. I’d rather avoid that again.  _

No one else said a word of dissent so they rose and went their separate ways. She overhead Jaime say he would be going riding into the harbour with Bronn and Brienne whilst Ser Davos seemed eager to speak with Daenerys. Once again, she found herself alone with Tyrion Lannister. 

‘Can I have the tour now?’ 

‘Of course,’ he winked, ‘your Grace.’ 

Sansa had walked the gardens of King’s Landing a hundred times. She walked with Margaery and Loras, but mostly she walked with Tyrion. His day as Master of Coin were busy and he was constantly meeting with some new merchants or lenders yet he found time to join her  among the roses and try his best to bridge the great canyon that sat between them. Sansa took these moments as some of the few opportunities she had to relax and let herself smile. The castle walls brought her too close to the gloved fists of those who wanted to cause her pain. With Tyrion at her side though, the watching eyes saw right through her and the fear drifted away with the autumn winds. 

Casterly Rock was just the same. The warm afternoon air was tinged with the sweet scent of honeysuckle as they passed by bed of rich ambers and reds and she looked up and found the sky completely cloudless. Tyrion walked along the loose stone paths like he owned the land he stepped on, which, of course, he did. He walked gladly too, a man finally back home without the fear of his father or sister to drive him away. He was Lord Lannister, not quite a King but within these walls, he, alone, ruled. She had to admit she liked the change in him. She knew he hadn’t found joy in his crown but, at least, the Rock was a good fit. The truth of the matter, of why they were all in the West, still muddied the freshness of his happiness but she decided to ignore that and join him in his appreciation of his family keep. 

Sansa swept through the gardens, her eyes constantly darting around as she followed Tyrion’s pointing finger. He showed her a marble fountain that the serving girls used to dance in at midsummer. He showed her the sweetest flowers and one that smelt particularly foul. After they’d traipsed the length of the gardens at least twice, he took her to the cliffs where the rock jutted out haphazardly into the sea. A hundred feet below, white waves worried the rocks and stone but their feverish power was somehow comforting. The rage and fury of the sea, no matter its strength, hadn’t managed to break down the cliffs in all its thousands of years. The Rock was never in danger and the sea kept to its place. 

She was staring into the churning waters, so mesmerised, that when she looked up, she was surprised to find the sun dipping below the horizon. She wondered how long they’d walked but she couldn’t put a number to it. Her hair caught slightly in the wind and she realised how ineffectual the Lannister dress she was wearing was against the chill. 

When she turned, Tyrion was staring at her. 

‘What?’ She tucked a flyaway hair behind her ear. 

‘Hmm?’ He shook his head. ‘Oh - you just looked surprisingly... content.’ She understood his meaning. Wolves in lion’s den were usually not so calm. 

She shrugged a reply and, after an unspoken decision, he  led her inside for the rest of the tour. 

Most of the keep was as she expected. The halls and rooms were not too different to that of Winterfell- all that separated them were the bright crimson and gold wall hangings that covered every inch of stone. She gave up trying to count the number of lions she could see, there were more adorning the walls than windows. 

He took her to see his Uncle Kevan’s counting rooms. Before the  Lannisters departed the Rock and took their place in King’s Landing, Kevan Lannister oversaw the production of the mines. Tyrion told her of the great sacks of stones and crystals brought to him each morning which, painstakingly, the then young man sorted through. 

‘That was when the mines would overflow.’ He gestured to the dark room, she could smell the must and damp. ‘Now they don’t need whole rooms to sort through what the  commoners bring up. 

Her eye was caught by a glint of green, just visible from where she stood underneath the folds of the rich curtains. She crouched down to push them aside and, abandoned and covered in a fine layer of dust, she retried an emerald stone, roughly cut and unpolished but the size of her thumbnail. 

She brushed away the accumulated dirt and passed it between both hands in inspection. 

‘A Lannister gem for a Lannister woman.’ Tyrion imitated his father’s voice, also intrigued by her find. ‘It’s no wonder our fortune has been spent, if such treasures are left on the floor.’ 

_ That and the copious debts owed to your family from the crown.  _ She wondered if Margaery would ever pay them, or any of the other houses and banks the  Lannisters and  Baratheons borrowed from. She knew Tyrion had paid for a portion of his sister’s spending, but the debt was far more widespread than the Iron Bank of  Braavos . 

‘Thank you.’ She mumbled, closing her hand around the stone and slipping it carefully into the coin pouch at her waist. It was scantly filled by coins anymore and the emerald rattled as it knocked against the few pieces of silver she had left.  _ Now I am in debt too, and to Bronn of all people.  _ She tried not to think about it. ‘Now to your rooms?’

He sighed dramatically. ‘Fine.’

She couldn’t say what had interested her so much about the prospect of Tyrion’s childhood rooms but the picture of him when he was younger, using his rooms to escape from his sister and father, piqued her imagination. She could already envision the rows of books from across the realm. She wondered if he ever made drawings like she once did, or if, like Robb, he preferred scribbling across maps battle plans for some dreamed up war. 

Tyrion’s childhood chambers were everything she could imagine. As expected, the walls were lined with books – some in perfect condition, others worn with frequent reads. There were piles around the room too- some stacked neatly by the window and others near the fireplace. Like the rest of the keep, the room was decorated with reds and golds but a lot less than his father’s. There were spaces left blank on the wall where she was sure hangings would have once been set. She wondered whether they’d been torn down in a fit of fury or if Tyrion had completely refused to let them stay in the first place. A small desk at the far end of the chamber was littered with papers and several pots of ink, a chaotic corner in an otherwise perfectly kept room. 

She let her hands rest on the backs on his chairs as she passed them then let her fingers run across the flaking tomes – only some of which she recognised. Without meaning to, her eyes drifted to his bed, large and awash with furs and cushions, and they lingered there. She closed her eyes. She slumped down onto a chair. 

‘Sansa?’ His voice was low, riddled with concern. 

‘Hmm?’ She opened her eyes again, faced with the four posters once more. She could not break away and focus on anything else. Her mind travelled elsewhere, or at least, to another time. She saw a present that was not her own but that left a bitter taste in her mouth. The imagined images that flashed behind her eyes were nauseatingly perfect and entirely sickening. She opened her mouth to explain but she found the words quickly escaped her. Before she had time to realise what was happening, her eyes began to brim and her vision blurred. 

‘What’s wrong?’ He dropped down before her and reached for her hand. She let him take it. His body was warm and real and not out of her imagination. 

‘Nothing.’ She wiped at her eyes with her free sleeve and shook her head. ‘I was just thinking, Gods know why, about what it would’ve been like if I hadn’t killed Joffrey.’ 

He laughed, expecting a swift punchline yet she looked back at him, deadly serious. ‘You regret killing the little bastard?’ 

‘No, of course not.’ She cracked a smile. ‘But I was just thinking if I hadn’t, well I might just have ended up here. Your father couldn’t keep us both at court forever. I was just thinking – would it be so terrible?’

‘To live here with me?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘In a forced marriage, in a near enough foreign land, while your home is plundered by  Boltons ?’ He still looked to her as if she were joking. 

‘If the North was safe though, in safe hands.’ She shrugged her shoulders heavily. ‘Jon could’ve saved it and ruled perfectly well – he still could’ve taken on the dead with Daenerys and- and I could’ve been safe here.’

‘You’d rather you stayed here than lead an army to your people’s aid?’ He dropped his smile. 

‘I want to be safe, and happy and comfortable. I fought for so many years against so much and-’

‘And they made you a Queen in their gratitude. Is that not what you wanted?’ A small tear had escaped and sat just below her eye. He brushed it away with his thumb. 

She remembered a day when being Queen was what she wanted- but only because she was certain it was where she was headed. That was before she knew who, or what, Joffrey was and watched her dream  poisoned and corrupted by Lannister blood. 

‘I just wanted what I was told to want. Mostly that was to be a Lady to people who would respect me, in a place I could find beautiful.’ She glanced around the room. ‘I think I would’ve had that here.’ 

He sat back on his heels, knitting his brow together in thought. She could understand his confusion – most women wouldn’t admit to wanting to throw away what they were supposed to hold dear for the sake of a featherbed and an attempt at happiness. Then again, he knew how exhausted she was even before she set off to Dorne. He knew how every day in King’s Landing was a test and how, at the end of every day, she wondered whether she could do it all again come the morning.  Casterly Rock would’ve been the easy option –  _ and what shame is there in wanting an easy life?  _

_ ‘ _ So, you mean that you would tolerate me, this place, for a chance to escape?’ His tone was tinged in bitterness. 

She hadn’t meant it that way.  _ Why must he always see the worst in everything?  _

_ ‘ _ I wouldn’t  _ tolerate  _ you.’ She smiled faintly, ‘I didn’t simply  _ tolerate  _ you in King’s Landing so why would I do it here? Don’t make yourself some kind of martyr to my happiness.’ She huffed loudly. ‘Anyway, it’s just something stupid that I was thinking about, I know it’s impossible, you don’t need to remind me.’

‘Impossible?’ He sat forward once again. ‘Why? You’re saying you’ll never be happy? If this is about Margaery or Stannis -’

‘It’s not.’ She threw her head backwards against the chair. ‘I’ll get back North soon, I know that. But when I do, I’ll leave this, this dream behind. I’ll have to marry a man I do not (and never will) love, and leave others behind because it would be cruel of me to force than to stay at my side just because I am glued to my seat. I shall rule, marry, produce an array of offspring that I will be forced to love then I shall die. I can keep my dreams but they shall be just that, forever.’ 

‘Sansa-’

She lifted her head. ‘What?’ 

‘Do not tell me the woman who marched across the whole of Westeros with an army, marched into the Twins alone, and fought at Winterfell, twice, is suddenly willing to let the world shit on her. I don’t believe it. The Sansa Stark I know fights for what she wants.’ 

‘But I don’t know what I want.’ She nearly laughed. It was a nice idea, that she could take whatever she desired but, if that was the case, she wouldn’t be stuck at  Casterly Rock, surrounded by enemies. 

‘You just told me. You want to marry someone you love and be surrounded by friends. You’re terrified at the prospect of people leaving you – like Arya and Gendry going to Storm’s End, your brother going North and Brienne going away with Jaime. You want your legacy to be worth something – and who doesn’t?’ 

She became suddenly away of his hands upon hers, squeezing gently. He didn’t hold a cup of wine as usual, instead his eyes were entirely fixed on her, not even flicking for a moment to the table that held his carafes. She knew what she really wanted, but she didn’t dare say it. He said anything was possible, but she knew he was wrong in this case. Still, the warmth of his hands on her, mingling with his cool rings pressing into her skin, sent tingles through every nerve in her body. 

‘I don’t have that luxury. Dreams are foolish things to cling onto. Queen’s must be selfless and accept their lot. What King has ever truly been content? Was Robert Baratheon ever happy? Was Joffrey, or Tommen? Were the  Targaryens in their high seats ever really satisfied?’ 

‘From what I saw of Robert, he was rather pleased with himself. He had enough whores to last a lifetime and  an unlimited supply of men willing to walk on their knees for the chance to kiss his overgrown feet.’

‘Whores don’t make happiness.’ She smiled faintly, then realised what she’d said. Sansa watched the colour drain from Tyrion’s face. His green eyes sat wide and unblinking. She stammered to explain herself. ‘He fought to be King but also for my Aunt Lyanna. How could he be happy without her?’ Robert Baratheon had been fighting for a prize that could never be his, but his love towards Lyanna was real, even if it were not returned. Even with Cersei at his side, he sat on that throne alone. No whore could make up for that. 

‘And if Lyanna had survived and married him?’

‘He would’ve been happy. But fate is never so kind as that.’ She sighed. ‘The Gods are intent on keeping people like Robert and Lyanna apart – we are not allowed to be happy. You’re right – I should fight for myself, but what can I do when the decision is already made for me?’ 

She saw the picture of the life she never lived once more. She saw herself outstretched on the bed, Tyrion reading quietly by her side. The scene shifted and she was writing letters in her robes, letting the afternoon sun spread across her cheeks. When night fell Tyrion came back to her, eyes bright and wearing a smile he saved only for her. Her heart ached inside her chest. 

‘You’re right.’ He conceded, pulling away and pushing himself up onto the chair opposite her. ‘You’re stuck where you are forever. A Queen on her own in the bitter North with no one to really love her, surrounded by empty loyalty and-’

‘Tyrion-’ She warned. ‘I’m feeling worse enough.’

He smirked. ‘Let me finish. You may be completely fucked. But that doesn’t mean the rest of us are.’ He leaned forward, ‘do you know why Robert and Lyanna couldn’t be together? Why he couldn’t be ‘happy’ as you say?’ 

‘She was in love with another, with Rhaegar.’ Sansa knew the tale well. At first the entire realm had been sure Rhaegar had kidnapped the Stark girl but now they knew better. The Lady loved the Prince and only death had drawn them apart. 

‘She made a choice. Robert couldn’t, because it wasn’t his choice to make.’ 

She nodded in vague understanding. 

‘So, what if your happiness isn’t your choice anymore? You’ve done all you can for yourself – but you can’t force others to please you.’ 

Sansa bit her tongue. He made sense.  _ One person can only do so much for themselves.  _

A natural silence followed and, fearing the moment would drag, she stood and lit the pile of ready firewood in the hearth with a nearby torch. When she sat back down, she looked back to see Tyrion Lannister’s face consumed by flames. They lapped across his skin, in the same way the real ones had engulfed her. Now it was just the light they produced, dancing upon their flesh and bringing out the gold in his emerald eyes. 

‘You’ve made too many assumptions, Sansa.’ He spoke again, she raised her brow. 

‘In what way?’ 

‘You’ve assumed I’ll be staying here, or going off with Daenerys.’ 

She started. ‘And you won’t be? It’s a fair assumption that a Lord will stay in his keep.’ 

‘Sometimes it is. But you know me better, Sansa, don’t you? I’ve told you before, this place isn’t my home. I fought to be free of this infernal rock, I’m only back here because it’s safe.’ 

She thought for a minute, then remembered the conversation they’d had in her rooms at the Red Keep. ‘So, you’ll be travelling then, seeing the wonders of the world?’

‘No, I don’t think so. I’ve had too much excitement and adventure for several lifetimes. Men twice my size cannot say they’ve seen or done so much as I have. I want a rest – a warm bed and fire and someone to fill my hours with.’ 

She looked him up and down. Her heart was picking up its pace inside her chest, though she wasn’t completely sure why. Perhaps it was his expression, so earnest and pure, or the images of his future that his words produced. 

‘Someone?’ She cocked her head to one side. She felt her scarred skin tighten gently with the movement. He coughed to clear his throat. 

‘You.’

Sansa’s mouth opened then shut again. Her heart was hammering now, filling her ears with the sound of blood rushing through her brain. She felt a rush of heat rising from her chest up her neck and sitting in her cheeks. The single syllable ran through her head a thousand times. She knew it’s meaning but it felt like an imposter. 

‘Y-you-’

‘I won’t be staying with Daenerys forever. Stannis will be defeated, he’s already died once, and we’ll find a way to stop Margaery from following the steps of my sister. You’ll get back to Winterfell and, when you do, I’d like to join you.’ He said the words so simply, like a fact that couldn’t be questioned. For a moment she believed him.  _ Stannis and Margaery won’t plague me forever. My home will wait for me. I’ll sleep in my bed once more. But, perhaps, I won’t be alone. _

_ ‘ _ You hate the North.’ She managed. ‘It’s cold and you’ll have to be bundled up all the time, like the rest of us. We have different Gods and our food is never so sweet as in the South and-’ 

She didn’t get to finish her sentence. In a swift movement, Tyrion rose from his seat and stood before her. He cut her off with a hand on her cheek and his lips pressed deftly against hers. In another moment, she’d joined him on her knees on the floor. His lips tasted sweet, like a floral wine they’d had with their food that afternoon. He moved against her slowly, testing the waters, and she matched his speed, reaching a hand to the back of his neck and taking hold of his dense curls. 

She felt weight growing inside of her – a need that blossomed in her stomach that she’d never felt before. Every touch of his lips and hands deepened the depths of her desire. She pushed a little harder against him – he responded in kind. Her hands were becoming more curious than her mouth. While the one in his hair tightened, the other lay against his chest, feeling the rapid but soothing thrum of his heart between them. She felt the heat of him beneath his doublet and all she could think of was casting it aside to feel flesh against flesh. She was suddenly aware of her own clothes too –  _ how heavy and awkward they are.  _ Tyrion’s hand rested against her neck, but she silently begged it to drop further, even just a few inches, just for the sensation. 

‘Tyrion! Oi! Oh-’ The door swung open without a knock and a rumble of boots against the wooden floor broke them apart. Sansa looked up and, appearing in front of them in a slight haze, she made out the figure of Bronn of the Blackwater looking down upon them both. He flicked his hand and bent his head in a mocking bow. ‘Your Grace.’ 

Tyrion pushed himself to his feet, brushed off his breeches, and faced his old companion. ‘Yes?’ He asked, slightly exasperated. 

‘Just thought you should know that little shit that nearly had us both smashed up on the rocks of the  Eeyrie’s come to pay you a visit. Not the social type, mind. He looks like he hasn’t seen his mother’s tit in some time.’

_ Because she’s bloody dead.  _ Sansa didn’t need much to know he was talking of her cousin, Robin. The young Lord, at his mother’s side, had been there for Tyrion’s trial. He was older now, and a great deal wiser. It made no sense for him to travel to the West. 

‘Of course, if you’re busy taking maidenhe-’

‘Say another word and I’ll cut off your cock.’ Tyrion’s voice was as sharp as the knife he gestured to at his hip. 

‘And I’ll take your tongue too, for good measure.’ She added, rising to her feet. She glanced quickly in a mirror and fiddled with her hair to return it to some kind of normality. Unfortunately, there was no hiding the blush on her cheeks. She cursed under her breath.  _ The Gods may be good in letting Tyrion have a choice, but they still have their heart set against me. If it is not Margaery or Stannis, its Robin. Who shall be next? Shall my mother be returning from the dead to reprimand me?  _

_ ‘ _ There’s nothing I can do to stop you.’ Catelyn Stark’s voice echoed in her ear and she spotted a flash of dark auburn hair in the space behind her in the mirror. ‘But go to Robin, your cousin needs you.’ 

To the empty space at her back, Sansa nodded and, with a restrained smirk to Tyrion, the three of them set off to see the Lord of the Vale very much out of place. Tyrion fell into place beside her an, for half a second, he caught hold of her hand and squeezed. She closed her eyes. 

_ Thank you.  _


	10. The Bastard Lord

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: There are some slightly mature scenes later on in this chapter (things are kept quite vague). If you are under 18 or not comfortable with that content, please skip the section from 'waves of red and gold at her feet' to 'and nothing else at all'. You have been warned

Sansa sat alone with her cousin. The Lord of the  Eeyrie positioned himself opposite her at a table, resting his chin on a clenched fist. She tried her best to make out why Robin Arryn had ventured so far West but his appearance gave nothing away. As usual his wore a blue and white doublet with riding trousers, a small bird embroidered neatly onto the top of his arm. His face gave away his agitation but little else. He had refused to speak to anyone bar her. 

‘So, Robin-’ she began with a faint smile, ‘what brings you to  Casterly Rock?’ 

He fidgeted in his seat and fixed his dark eyes on a spot just behind her. ‘Betrayal - you?’

‘Stannis Baratheon.’ 

He nodded, ‘ah, me too.’ 

She narrowed her eyes. ‘He’s taken the Vale?’ She couldn’t think of another reason for him to have travelled so far from his lands. 

‘The Vale, the  Eeyrie , and most of the mountains too.’ His spare hand balled into another fist on the table. 

‘He’s blocked our path North too. But why did you come here?’

He shrugged. ‘Word at the crossroads was that  _ Lord  _ Lannister had returned  here. I knew we saw eye to eye about the Targaryens, so I hoped he’d have some advice.’

‘Advice, or men? We can provide one but we are lacking on the other.’ She crossed her arms across her chest. Stannis moving South was both a curse and a blessing. If he continued his path, they’d have to face him sooner than they hoped – neither Gendry or Arya would reach them in time. Then again, if he was marching towards the city, his men would be spread too thin and they’d stand a chance of crossing the causeway back into the North. Either way, Stannis had told her it wasn’t his attention to attack King’s Landing, so perhaps, for a time at least, they’d be safe. 

When Robin made no reply, she leant forward towards him. ‘How did he take the Eeyrie? It’s one of the most well-defended keeps in the realm.’ She paused, she recalled he mentioned betrayal. ‘Unless someone let them in?’

‘As far as I know, that’s how it happened.’ He sighed, tapping his temple. ‘His armies swept through the Vale and found the gates open to them. There wasn’t even a battle to speak of. I leave for a few weeks to see that moot and-’

‘You can’t blame yourself. No one expects treachery. That is why it works so well. Do you know who let them in?’ 

Now he met her eye and a strange smile overcame his pale features. He scoffed. ‘I was wondering when you’d ask that. I don’t think you’ll like the answer.’ 

‘What?’ 

‘Your darling betrothed, cousin. Harrold – my own heir, let Stannis’ men in.’ He spat the name like it was poisoned. ‘When I see him, I know a good place to show him.’ 

‘The moon door?’ She guessed, Tyrion and Bronn had once told her of the joy young Robin took out of seeing prisoner’s ‘fly’ the thousands of feet down the mountain. It seemed his passion for that particular form of execution remained. 

‘But I  _ will  _ rip out his eyes first. I will cut off his hair and maybe take some fingers and a leg and-’

‘I understand.’ 

‘I know he’s your betrothed but-’

She shook her head and painted on a serious face. She couldn’t say she was pleased that her cousin’s keep had been taken or that Stannis had made ground faster than expected, but the prospect of ridding herself of Harrold was just too sweet not to take pleasure in.  _ I never wanted him dead, he didn’t deserve any cruelty. But now if he truly is a turn-coat, I have no choice but to accept whatever punishment Robin decides upon.  _

_ ‘ _ I will not stand by someone so vile.’ She put it plainly and Robin smiled nodded in agreement. They sat in silence. 

‘What should we do?’

_ We? How many more causes will I have to fight?  _

_ ‘ _ We have no men here, not enough to fight. Stannis wants me to seek help from Margaery but I refuse to travel all that way back just for a rejection. I know for a fact she will not hear me seriously. I’ve sent my sister and Gendry Baratheon to gather support for us. I’ve also sent pleas to the  Greyjoys -’  _ Greyjoy,  _ she reminded herself,  _ there is just one now, ‘ _ \- all we can do is wait here where it is safe.’ 

‘Wait?’ He scrunched up his nose at the prospect of it. ‘You have some men  here, I have my escort and don’t you have a dragon too? We could just -’ he mimed a dragon’s mouth with his hand, opening and  unleashing fire upon the table. 

‘You wish to burn down Moat Cailin, White Harbour and the  Eeyrie ?’ She raised an eyebrow, ‘would that be wise?’ 

He swallowed hard and shook his head wordlessly. 

With a nod that said,  _ I’m glad you think so,  _ she pressed her palms on the table and pushed herself up. 

‘Tell the others what you have told me. You can trust them. I need some time to think.’ She turned towards the door. 

‘I’m sorry about your betrothal!’ He called out after her. 

With her back to him, a grin spread across her cheeks.  _ I’m not.  _

_ ‘ _ So, what was the lovely Queen of the North doing with you in your chambers?’ Bronn nudged an elbow into his side. Tyrion was reminded of the threat of castration he’d given earlier but decided not to go through with it. He breathed out through his nose. 

‘That is my business.’ They sat around a table, laid with a brilliant spread set out for the Queen and Lord paying the keep a visit. The two in question had spoken at length together as soon as Lord Robin had arrived and then he’d spoken to him and Daenerys too, explaining his predicament and how it aligned so perfectly with their own. It was strange to look over his table and see the boy that had once, in such a shrill and petulant voice, called for him to be tossed to his death. The boy, just a man, now looked less murder-y but still possessed the same rage he’d seen so many years ago. He wondered if the tutelage of Littlefinger had made him better or worse. He supposed only time would tell.  _ If he is another Baelish though, it’s best to put him out of his misery now.  _

He’d lost his appetite. His afternoon and evening had already been far  busier than he’d expected. Days were slow at the Rock, but never so full. His thoughts flew in every direction, but he only wanted to focus on one thing, or one person, sitting across the dais. 

‘Aye, and some quality business too.’ The Lord-knight grinned to himself, ‘pretty soon I’ll be the only man here who hasn’t fucked someone royal.’ 

Tyrion reached for his fork.  _ Careful what you say, Bronn.  _

_ ‘ _ But I can’t fault you for the choice, it’s her I’m more concerned for. Do you think she has a thing for- fuck, ow!’ Bronn looked down at the prongs of metal sticking into the back of his band. Small beads of blood were just blossoming onto his tanned skin. Tyrion kept his eyes forward, or at least, slightly towards the right, where Sansa pushed around a small potato on her plate as if she was weighing up its life worth. 

Cradling his injured hand with many grumbles and curses, Bronn left Tyrion alone for the rest of the meal, instead plaguing Brienne beside him who didn’t  hesitate to launch a sharp elbow into his ribs. Beaten down, he fell into silence.  _ Thank the Gods.  _

The air was heavy with discomfort. News of Stannis Baratheon’s movement South had spread quickly and the unease was catching. No one wished to address it, but it sat at the table anyway; an uninvited guest stealing away their food and sapping their energy. It was tiresome just to sit with people. He wished to be alone – almost.

The meal was taken from them, most plates barely touched, but cups drained of every last drop of  Dornish red. They rose with sighs and groans and went their own separate ways. Try as he might to find solace, he instead found himself pursued. Jaime dropped in beside him and met his pace. 

‘A drink, brother? It seems a shame to part with everyone in such a sour mood.’ 

‘Sour wine it is then.’ He smiled. He thought briefly of Sansa. He wondered if she’d wait for him, or if she’d escape the sombre atmosphere as he had  _ hoped  _ to do. Tyrion looked up at his brother and saw the desperation in his face. He nodded and they both stole away to the kitchens to find themselves a fair match for their fancies. 

With Sansa sleeping in their father’s old chambers, it didn’t seem fair for them to drink in the nearby audience rooms. Instead, they took themselves to the empty hall and pushed two chairs around a small table and set their drinks on top. Heavily, they dropped down and their cups were filled. 

As they drank the first two cups, they spoke quietly and simply of their days and the creeping dread they faced. Stannis Baratheon was, on multiple occasions, compared to the army of the dead they’d fought years ago. 

‘Only the Night King was just so much more  _ likable _ .’ Tyrion laughed into his drink, and Jaime rose his own in a toast. 

It was only after their fourth drink that tongues were loosened and barriers of formality broken down. Tyrion sat back in his seat, slowly swilling his cup, whilst Jaime sat forward, a man always ready to jump up, in the throw of some old tale told with fresh gusto. When he’d finished his story, Tyrion chuckled. 

‘And now here we are, two brothers and our Northern women. What would father think of that?’ He looked upwards, as if Tywin Lannister would reside anywhere other than the fiery depths of the seven hells. 

‘Both of us?’ Jaime narrowed his eyes. ‘You don’t mean-? I always fucking knew you would!’ He delivered a hearty slap to Tyrion’s back. 

_ Shite.  _ He hadn’t meant to say that.  _ Sansa isn’t mine. One kiss  _ _ seals _ _ nothing.  _

_ ‘ _ So _ Harry the Heir  _ shows his arse and there you are, willing to make it all better?’ Jaime finished his cup with a dramatic swig. ‘I’m impressed – I thought you preferred  _ other means _ of getting a woman to bed.’ 

‘You know as well I do  that she felt nothing for him. And I have not ‘got her to bed’. Forget I said anything.’ He set his cup down, something warned against losing anymore of his faculties. 

‘My little brother- seducer of Queens. Can’t say I’m surprised.’ 

He tried to maintain his temper. Jaime was drunker than he realised but still not as caustic as Bronn had been. ‘I have not seduced anyone. And you can’t speak – you were seduced by a knight, a big tall knight.’ 

‘I do believe, I was the one doing the seducing.’ Jaime smirked. 

‘As Lady Catelyn Stark’s prisoner? How irresistible you must have been.’ He tried to picture his brother as he had been when he first returned to King’s Landing. His hair and beard were long and ragged, his clothes torn and dirtied and he stunk like a rookery for days. Cersei had him scrubbed and his hair cut but no one could shift the perfume of the Riverlands from him. He could still smell it now, just faintly. 

‘Stranger things have happened.’ He slurred  slightly . ‘Be careful, brother, Queens are notoriously tricky.’ 

‘And you  _ would  _ know, wouldn’t you?’ Tyrion returned quickly, earning him a fist to the arm. He rubbed the spot, sure to be bruised, and frowned. 

‘I’m happy for you.’ Jaime poured them both a drink that Tyrion was sure would be their last. ‘It’s taken you fucking long enough.’ He raised his cup, Tyrion followed suit. 

‘To Stannis bloody Baratheon.’ He grinned, ‘The absolute worst man in Westeros.’  _ And the only reason any of us are here. The only reason Sansa is here.  _

‘The worst man in Westeros!’ Jaime repeated. 

_ There was a time the worst man had been him. Jaime Lannister the  _ _ oathbreaker _ _ ,  _ _ kingslayer _ _ , sister-fucker. He’d broken every code of honour in the book and then done some more, just for fun. Many people would say I was the worst. I was the imp befouling King’s Landing with my poison in the King’s ear. Then I was the  _ _ kingslayer _ _ too and the  _ _ kinslayer _ _ and whatever else would stick. They don’t say that anymore, not out loud, at the very least. It’s Stannis’ time to hold that title, and we gladly give it over.  _

He stumbled back to his rooms, glad to have stopped drinking when he did. The wine had got to his head but he wasn’t so deep in his cups that he couldn’t make his way back to his bed and appear relatively sane while doing it. The darkness of the halls didn’t help, but the few torches were enough to guide his way. He was just a few more turns away from the comfort of his bed when his feet stopped. At  first, he didn’t understand and simply stared down at his legs, willing them to go on. Then he looked to his left and realised why they’d stopped. 

His father’s room, with its glorious mahogany door, stood before him, as imposing as it was when he was a small boy.  _ It is not my father’s room anymore. He is dead and buried. I have filled that room with life.  _ Sansa was in there, probably asleep by now. Yet then, as he listened in, he could just hear the creak of floorboards of someone on their feet. He reached a hand towards the doorhandle. He stopped. 

_ Are you insane? _

He nearly slapped himself for his foolishness. He was drunk and didn’t know himself. He was in no state to present himself to Sansa: she was a lady, let alone a Queen. He’d saved her from his drunken outbursts most of the time in King’s Landing; always watching himself and disappearing away if he feared an outburst. Now was not the time to spoil his record, for him to be seen in such an unnatural state. He dropped his arm and picked up his feet. 

The floorboards screamed out in response. 

_ Fuck. _

‘Hello?’ 

A soft voice called out to him wearily from the other side of the door. He heard the sound of approaching footsteps and then the slow and careful click of the doorknob. He took a step back and braced himself. 

‘Tyrion?’ 

By the candlelight blooming behind her, he could barely see the Stark Queen bar the outline she cast across the door. What he could see was a knife, his knife, being deftly slipped back into its hold at her waist. 

‘Sansa!’ He spoke too loudly. He knew it as soon as the words escaped his lips but there was no stopping once they’d sprung out. 

She looked down on him. ‘You’re drunk?’ It was not a cruel question, just a question. She did not cross her arms and tut at him like others would. He could not see her face but he knew it would be a kind one. 

‘I am and I don’t mean to trouble you. I was just heading back to my rooms.’ 

She peered out into the dark corridor. 

‘ No, you’re not. Tyrion, your chambers are halfway across the keep. You’ll get lost or injure yourself. You can stay here.’ She stepped aside and beckoned him in. He tried to protest holding up his arms but his feet carried him in and what choice did he have but to obey?

‘Sansa I-’ His head immediately turned to the bed. He was not looking forward to the idea of sleeping in a chair that night. 

‘What?’ She followed his gaze and laughed. ‘It’s not like we haven’t shared a bed before.’ 

_ But never like this.  _ He wanted to point out the flaw in her logic but she was already lining the bed with extra furs. Now inside, he could see her properly. She was only in her shift, with a light, deep red robe covering her shoulders and tied together at her waist. Her auburn hair lay flat and tousled against her back and she had stripped her fingers and neck of their usual jewels. 

‘Can’t sleep?’ He managed to muster a few words to fill the silence. As she  worked, she shrugged. 

‘I have too much to think about. And you, what was the occasion?’ 

Now it was his turn to shrug. ‘Stannis, if you’ll believe it.’ He could see the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. 

‘I can.’ She stood back, hands at her hips, and swept a hand towards the bed. 

With a nod and unsteady legs, he stepped towards her. Then, remembering himself, he looked down at the clothes he was still in. He reached up and began fiddling with the buttons on his doublet. He was rarely nimble enough to take them off quickly sober, now they were near impossible. 

‘Here.’ 

In an instant she was  infront of him on her knees, slender fingers darting forward and making light work of the buttons and ties. She had that same look of concentration on her face he found so amusing. 

‘You know, I haven’t been drunk like this in some years.’ He tried to distract himself. ‘But now, my dear, five drinks and I can only just stand.’ 

‘My dear?’ Her head was still looking down, finishing the last button. He could tell she was smirking. 

‘You don’t like it?’ 

‘I never said that.’ 

She sat back on her heels as he shrugged the doublet off of his shoulders. His breeches were an easier task and he managed the tie with little fumbling. He stepped out of them and looked up towards his once-wife, suddenly aware of them both only in their underclothes. 

She didn’t appear too affected, though the low light would’ve hidden any blushing. Instead of calling out and running for the hills like she could’ve done, she turned away from him and pulled herself under the many layers of furs she’d prepared. He took her meaning and moved round to the other side where he hauled him up and under. 

He lay completely flat and still. As did she. 

_ It was never this hard before.  _ Sansa was right, they’d shared a bed a thousand times in King’s Landing.  _ But then it meant nothing at all.  _ They did so because it was what was expected. There were little options other than him aching every day from sleeping on the chaise. Now there were no expectations, no requirements and no fathers breathing down his neck. They slept in Tywin Lannister’s room but Tyrion couldn’t feel his presence any longer. The choice was theirs alone to make, which was what made it oh the more terrifying. 

The bed shifted as she rested on one side, facing him. Her lips were pressed together in great thought and her eyes, the colour of midnight oceans, were fixed on him. She didn’t say a word, and eventually, her eyelids drifted shut and he watched her breathing slow. 

‘My dear.’ 

The word had left his lips in an instant before his head told him to stop. Yet, when they were out in the world, he didn’t regret saying them. He drifted to sleep quickly, as the wine-addled brain often does, slipping into darkness on a raft bobbing lazily on a calm sea. The room never span out of control like it sometimes could; he relished in the sweet movements of to and  fro and the feeling of someone laying close by. His raft did not spiral it danced upon the slight waves and he, with it, dreamed. 

Daenerys was agitated. Every moment of the day she felt each muscle stretching, ready to make a sudden movement and free herself from the prison she had set herself in.  Casterly Rock was far more tolerable than most cells but she still wished herself away at every opportunity. She was in hiding, as if the last ten years of her life had never happened, as if she wasn’t the  Dragonqueen from the East who saved the people of Westeros from Tyranny. In the Lannister keep, they bowed to her, averted her eyes and called her sweet names of deference but it was only because Tyrion had bid them to. He may not be a King but, to them, their Lord was their life so being gracious to those he told them to was only part of survival. 

Every night she stood upon a balcony and searched the skies for a flash of black and red. She’d left without  Drogon , in an attempt to remain inconspicuous and those who now surrounded her warned her against using the greatest weapon they had in their arsenal. She waited each night to see if he would show.  _ If he comes here, for me, I’ll ride him and take back what Stannis Baratheon has seized.  _ She knew it wasn’t the way anyone else would’ve wanted but she also knew their entire plan could be boiled down to hide away and pray for salvation. Daenerys was never keen on relying on others for their support. Other people could never be trusted – her life was her own and could never sit in the hands of another. 

Drogon never came to her. Her last child that could stretch out his wings and cut across the sky was, of course, the most independent. He would leave her for months at a time if his will  demanded it. She had no hope of getting him back- she just had to wait. 

She slept a few hours every night, one ear always listening for more news. The tales of the Baratheon army travelling South were unsettling to say the least. Even she, having never visited it but  having heard plenty, knew the strength of the  Eeyrie . To hear it fall so easily, even by betrayal, left a sheet of ice over her optimism. 

_ I’ve fought my whole life for armies of my own. Where are they now?  _ She always half-hoped that if she’d look out of her bedroom window, she’d see the dark lines of men camped outside. She saw the metal caps of the Unsullied and the mismatched uniforms of the slaves and mercenaries that had followed her. In their place, there were only the sparse tents of the few men Tyrion had been able to wrangle from the once loyal Lannister lands. The wars had not been kind to the West and, even years later, they struggled to bring home the harvest, let alone provide an army. 

When she walked down to the kitchens to break her fast, she was met by the small frame of Robin Arryn, the young Lord that had come to them the evening before and spread his sorry stories. He looked just as anxious as she felt, with dark bags sticking out against his pale skin and a look of exhaustion painted on his features. They spoke a few words, not speaking of anything of important, and walked together, bowls of warm oats in hand, towards the halls where others would await them. 

She stopped dead at the door and young Robin drew to a halt with her, saying nothing but inclining his head for an explanation. 

‘Look at us.’ She gestured her spoon towards the room. ‘Great Lords and Ladies of their houses, hallowed knights and Hands of Kings and Queens, the Lord Protector of the East and the West and a Queen – and here we sit, eating our oats and waiting for a dead man to slaughter us all.’ 

He went to open his mouth  in response but she stalked forward, setting down her bowl loudly and joining her fellows at the top of the table. 

‘No news?’ She spoke curtly, holding a spoonful of porridge in the air. 

‘Not since last night.’ Tyrion tried a smile but she sent him a look that struck it from his cheeks. ‘Stannis’ eye will be on Riverrun. If it’s taken, word won’t take long to reach us here.’ 

‘What about the Twins?’ She still hadn’t tried the oats, her questions kept her stomach unsettled. 

‘No one rules the Twins anymore,’ Sansa, across the table, explained. ‘They remain only as a passage. Most of the surviving Frey servants remain but they serve no Lord. The last person with any claim to Walder Frey’s seat is my cousin, young  Hoster , who is a Tully and just eight years old.’ 

‘Taking the Twins has no advantage.’ Jaime Lannister spoke next, gesturing with his iron hand, ‘they will pass through it, leave some men behind to stop others from fleeing North, and advance on.’ 

Daenerys shook her head. She could not hear these men and women who had fought beside her once before speak so casually of the destructive path Stannis Baratheon was travelling on. It was not a matter of  _ if  _ but  _ when.  _

_ ‘ _ So, what shall we do today?’ She folded her arms on the table. She was met only by blank stares. 

‘We have to wait, Dany.’ Sansa began, softly. ‘Any move we make is suicide, we have to wait for support.’

‘How long will you wait, your Grace?’ Daenerys spoke before the Queen of the North began detailing all the letters and  people she had sent out to beg for help, ‘shall you still be sitting there with your oats when Stannis knocks at the gates? I can assure  you, he won’t be polite.’ 

‘What is it that you want us to do instead? Margaery Tyrell wants you dead, Stannis Baratheon wants us all dead and we have barely enough men to take a farm, let alone an army. Do you not think I tire of sitting here too? Do you not think all of us would rather be fighting than waiting for the inevitable?’ Sansa Stark set down her cutlery and fixed her with an exasperated look. 

‘I think you do not know what you are doing and won’t admit it. I think you all know I have the easiest way to end Stannis but you still refuse to accept.’ 

‘I will not let the Vale burn.’ Lord Arryn spoke  surprisingly firmly. 

‘White Harbour is full of innocent merchants and fishermen and their families.’ 

_ They still think me mad. I suggest using my dragon and they think I mean to burn it all down. They think I am out of control and need to be coated in ice water and hidden away.  _

_ ‘ _ Fine.’ She stood from her seat, smiling. ‘I will remain here and wait out my death, but I will not sit here with you as if nothing is the matter.’ Leaving her untouched bowl, she turned from the room and left them in silence. She heard the scuff of chair legs and a scuttle of feet. 

‘Daenerys!’ 

Missandei was on her in a moment, skirts gathered in her hands as she ran. She softened her features to see one of her eldest friends. 

‘You cannot convince me this is a good idea.’ She didn’t stop walking. 

‘It’s not a good idea.’ The young translator confessed, slightly out of breath from the sudden burst of movement. ‘But it’s all we have. Using Drogon is too much of a risk.’ 

‘You think I can’t control myself?’ She spun round quickly, stopping dead. Missandei shook her head heavily.

‘ Of course I don’t, and neither do they. But could you be  _ absolutely _ __ certain you wouldn’t harm anyone innocent, however precise you were?’ 

Daenerys thought for a moment. Fire was fire. It was easy to catch and sometimes impossible to stop. Many would say letting a fire gut a house was better than trying to control it. She lowered her eyes. 

‘No.’ 

‘Then there must be another way. If we have the men, there may be no need of a fight at all.’ 

‘They think Stannis Baratheon can be reasoned with?’ She scoffed. From what she’d heard of the man, he’d rather turn to blood magic than compromise. 

‘They don’t know. But we have to try.’ 

She didn’t like it. In fact, she hated it. She hated every reminder that they were stuck but, she had to admit it, they were stuck.  Drogon was powerful; too powerful for her to ever have complete faith in. Her child had grown up wilful and ferocious, now she had to pay the price for his destructive tendencies.  Casterly Rock was safe, for now, but she hoped someone had a plan when came under attack, because it would, she had no doubt. If rumours had spread that Tyrion was at his old keep, they’d reach Stannis before long and he’d surely put it all together and find a nest of his enemies all huddled together, waiting to be attacked. Yes, she definitely hated it.  _ I may not be a Queen but I must still do as Queens do – endure.  _

Storm’s End was far larger than he had imagined. Gendry had heard tales, as even a bastard in Flea’s Bottom would, of its looming stone walls and a single tower the size of a small town. Somehow though, standing before the great curtain of wall that encased the ancestorial keep of the  Baratheons it extended before him like a behemoth with no clear end. He wandered what it had looked like, when the one tower had been seven. The piece of weathered rock jutting out into the sea had once been the seat of the Storm Kings and had been even larger, even taller and even more like all of his worries tumbled into one. 

_ What would my father say?  _ Robert Baratheon, the father he had but never saw, had given the keep to his youngest brother, Renly, a not-so poorly veiled slight against the elder, Stannis. Now the seat, so hotly contested, was his to claim.  _ A bastard boy, a smith from the street of steel.  _

He pressed his hand against the outer wall that protected the keep against a thousand years of rebellion and war. It was covered by a thin layer of seawater- the same moisture that hung in the air filling lungs with its damp quality. A man on the road had told him that the rocks were enchanted and held spells within him, just like the magic they said was woven into the ice of The Wall, to keep the dead out. He had once been sure that magic and spells were just a story told to scare children and warn them against strangers. Yet he’d seen things that set his heart to ice and caught his breath. He’d seen the dead rise and take arms against the living. He’d seen an enchantress use his blood for her cruel magic and worst of all, it had worked. Why then, after all he’d seen, should he not believe that Storm’s End was enveloped by a spell too? 

In a sharp movement he drew away his hands and looked upwards once more. He just caught a glimpse of metal helmets bobbing along the battlements. No one paid him much mind, staring upwards like a babe first catching sight of the sun. 

He shook his head.  _ I’m a Baratheon. The Red Woman’s spells only worked because I really did have King’s blood, Robert’s blood. Sansa and Tyrion named me legitimate, they can’t turn me away now. _

With a steadying breath, he strode around to the great wrought iron gates and presented himself.

‘Yes?’ A guard on the other side of the gates looked over him with a glum expression. 

‘I am Gendry Baratheon, your Lord.’ Somehow, he didn’t stutter. 

The man cracked a smile and flexed the fingers of his hand gripping the end of his spear. ‘Are you now? We’ve heard about this Gendry Baratheon, heard he’s a bastard boy from Flea’s Bottom. One of Robert’s many runts he left wherever he trod. What is it you want, money, a title? Go on, boy. Leave us be.’ 

‘I-I am your rightful Lord, ser. I was legitimised by Queen Sansa Stark of the North and King Tyrion. Here-’ He reached into his pack and produced two scrolls of paper that indicated what had been said. Of course, these weren’t the original copies, nor was Tyrion Lannister’s signature on the second parchment strictly written by his hand. The originals were on the ‘Young Wolf’ and probably remained, disintegrated with the rotting ship on the sea bed. Sansa had been able to write new papers for him, just as the ones before, and had drawn out the Lannister’s signature in a careful hand. Usually these things would have a seal, but such luxuries couldn’t be afforded once his Uncle had swept the deck from below their feet. ‘I am Robert Baratheon’s,  _ my father’s _ , rightful heir. The  Lannisters had all his other bastards killed.’ 

The guard passed the papers to his partner who looked them over with an  equally un-informed eye . He scrunched up his nose. 

‘How are we supposed to know you didn’t just steal this? Or that these aren’t forgeries – where are the seals?’ 

Gendry looked between the two men, trying to mask his exasperation. He’d been preparing himself in the weeks of travel for the moment he’d finally reach the land he was destined to make his own. He hadn’t expected to be refused at the door. He was reminded of a similar time, when Arya was stopped at the gates of Winterfell. 

‘Are you really willing to take the risk that I’m not the Lord here? It wouldn’t take me long to speak to – to the Queen Margaery and see what she has to say about a nobleman of good blood barred from his own grounds.’ He prayed to the Seven that no one suspected their swift exit from King’s Landing was due to any resentment between them. He wondered briefly if Margaery would actually vouch for him. ‘What’re your names’ He touched the top of his hammer lightly. 

‘Gregory and  Stamner .’ The first spoke out, his voice faltering briefly. He turned slightly pale beneath his golds and blacks. He looked to his partner, who offered him little, and, eventually, shrugged his shoulders. ‘Come in this way, old  Jurne will know what to do with you.’ 

Gendry didn’t know who  Jurne was or whether he should be glad or concerned to be put under his scrutiny. But he waved heartily as the gate creaked open and smiled towards the guards who now refused to meet his eye.  _ Gregory and  _ _ Stamner _ _.  _ He kept those names at the back of his head. 

Once through the initial wall of the hold, the base of the tower extended towards him, as wide as the eyes could see. They lead him inside in silence, through a side door which lead to a series of rather unfortunate steep stone stairs. He had half the notion that they planned to throw him down when they reached the top. Yet, once they climbed the final stair, he was not grabbed and hauled to his death, but told to wait while one tapped lightly on a wooden door and spoke in a hushed tone inside. 

‘Go in. That’s Maester Jurne and the Steward, Peake. These are  _ real  _ fine folk, lad, treat them as such.’

‘Thanks for the advice.’ He mumbled beneath his breath as he stepped through the door propped open for him. It shut hard behind him but he did not hear the sound of feet descending back down the stairs. 

In front of him, a small chamber awaited, carved into the side of the tower like an undiscovered cave. Windows behind in provided some light but the day was clouded over so several candles were lit around a large, stone table that sat in the centre. As warned, two figures sat at it, staring back at him with wide, questioning eyes. The Maester, he presumed by the ring of chains hanging at his scraggly neck, was an ageing man like all of his kind were. His hair was still full and dark, and his eyes a flash of life on his dull, decaying face. His thins lips pressed together so closely they seemed to disappear. Next to him, Gendry found the steward, quite a lot younger and not exactly as how he expected. Peake, which now he supposed was a surname, was, as far as he could tell, a woman. She had ashy blonde hair that had been cut to her chin and the fresh features of someone not yet thirty.

‘Gendry Baratheon?’ She spoke, her voice rich in the accent of the Storm Lands, ‘how many times will we hear that one?’ 

‘Do not rush to conclusions, dear, at some point the real Lord must show his face.’ 

‘Real Lord?’ She scoffed, ‘only real because some King said so. He’s a bastard by-blow of Robert – one amongst thousands. We’re better off without him.’ 

‘Are we?’ The old man’s bright eyes cast themselves over her, ‘do you wish to remain as we are forever? Need I remind you that your position is... unstable.’ 

‘I do not need reminding. I just need a break from these pretenders. Although-’ she sighed, ‘at least this one’s the right age.’ 

‘That’s true.’ The  maester turned back to Gendry. ‘The last one we had was near as old as I am.’ He laughed gently before using the table to help him to his feet. At his movement, the girl shot up and gave her his arm. They approached him slowly.

‘He certainly has the look about  him, don’t you think?’  Jurne continued. A spotted hand reached forward and a finger traced the air around his jaw. ‘I saw Robert grow up, and Stannis and Renly. This one is the spit of when he was a boy.’ 

‘Lots of men have dark hair and strong jaws.’ She mumbled, evidently bored. 

‘But do many have that and Robert’s eyes? Do they all have his build? Or- what's this? A hammer just like the one Robert took into battle with him?’ 

The steward looked over the features he pointed out. Her face softened just slightly. ‘It proves nothing.’ 

‘And yet... who was your mother, boy?’

‘My mother? No clue. She had blonde hair and a sweet voice, that’s all I remember. I grew up a smith on the street of steel, lucky enough to get an apprenticeship.’ 

‘Hmm.’ Out of habit, the  maester clutched at one of his chains, one of pure white bone. 

‘Where’s your wife? I heard the Gendry Baratheon was due to get married.’ Peake still remained unconvinced. 

‘Arya, I mean the Princess, has gone home to the North. There is an urgent matter we must  discuss; I don’t have the time for-’

‘For us to be certain?’ 

‘For any delays. Stannis Baratheon is heading South he’s-’

‘Stannis?’ They both stared back at him blankly. After her  initial shock, the girl covered her mouth in a laugh. The  maester did not flinch. 

‘Your information is wildly outdated,’ she grinned, ‘Stannis has been dead years.’ 

‘He isn’t dead. I saw him with my own eyes. He’s taken White Harbour and Moat Cailin and why wouldn’t he come here too?’ He felt himself grow hot beneath his clothes. If they didn’t believe him, his whole trip would be for nothing and he wouldn’t be able to provide the men Sansa needed. ‘I came here for men, my men, to face him.’ 

‘Come on, Maester. I’ve never heard more bollocks in my life. Let the guards throw him off the ramparts or something.’ 

‘Not yet, Tala. It is a strange lie to tell, is it not? What have the other pretenders asked for, hmm? They want money, they want the keep. They want us to bend the knee and kiss their toes. This Gendry wants men for a good cause.’

‘A cause that doesn’t exist!’ She exclaimed, throwing her hands up. ‘Stannis Baratheon is-’

‘Alive, and a greater threat than we could’ve imagined. Come on my dear, who would make such a thing up?’ He sighed to still see her continued agitation and lowered his voice. ‘What more do you want him to do? He has the  look, the papers and  _ I  _ don’t think he’s lying. Do you?’

She gave him one last piercing look and shook her head. ‘Fine, but I don’t want any part of it. Go off to your phony war against a dead man and don’t come back to me when it kills you.’ She took herself to the other side of the room and exited through a door he hadn’t seen before. 

The old man chuckled to himself then smiled when he saw Gendry’s concern. ‘She’ll come around. She’s just cautious. We’ve had too many close calls, and too few Lords leading us. Poor girl thinks she can run this place forever.’

‘She’s done a good job so far. How did she come to be a steward?’ They sat down at the table. 

‘Ser Farring was castellan when Stannis took the keep after Renly. Tala’s father was steward at the time but him and the knight didn’t get on well. They threw him into the sea and decided they didn’t need another steward while the ser was around. One night, he was found dead in his bed, something natural killed him, of course. Stannis was dead by then too, and many tried to take his place, but Tala stood before them all and called herself steward. No one wanted to say no – she was always at her father’s side and knew the work unlike anyone.’

‘Why won’t anyone take Ser Farring’s place? A place like this needs a castellan.’ 

‘It does, you’re right. But after she settled as steward, rumours went around that Ser Farring had cursed his title when he bedded one of the serving girls in the Lord’s chamber. They said that’s why he died. The keep didn’t fall, so no one put their name forward.’

_ I’m glad this Ser Farring is long dead, though I’m certain it was Tala who made sure of it.  _

_ ‘ _ Anyway, you said we don’t have time for such stories. Tell me,  _ my Lord _ , what would you have me do?’

Sansa’s days passed in uncomfortable idleness. She was used to living her life on her feet, or seated before courts, yet now the best she could do was wander the unfamiliar keep and make short conversation with those she found along the way. She’d written letters, studied maps, read some histories and spoke at length with Jaime Lannister, but that had all been in a day. Now she’d been at The Rock a week, and she swore she could draw out the plans for every floor by heart.

She hated waiting. She waited what felt like a lifetime for someone to free her from King’s Landing; so long she eventually decided to just do it herself. Waiting meant danger – like waiting on the skirts of a battle or for important news to arrive, and it left her stomach twisting and churning at the unwelcome anticipation. At least battles would only last a few hours; at Casterly Rock she existed in a perpetual state of worry, and no kind words or positive thinking could soothe her. 

It was not just the slow descent of Stannis Baratheon, nor the lack of news from her sister or Gendry that unsettled her the most. It was Daenerys Targaryen. Sansa had made a pledge to trust the  Dragonqueen , but that had been before they’d been holed up together like horses in stables. Daenerys was not one to be caged and she beat her hooves against the ground and tossed her head from side to side just to prove it. She felt the same discomfort Daenerys felt – staying put and relying on others wasn’t enjoyable for her either – but she’d done it for years in the  Lannisters ’ clutches, she believed she could last it out just a little while longer. Dany did not have the same fortitude. Dragons are born to stretch their wings and beat them in the sky. Those that were bred inside grew small and died young. Daenerys seemed to believe that any longer spent at  Casterly Rock would doom her to the same fate. 

It was on her sixth night at  Casterly Rock that she finally broached the subject to Tyrion, after they dined together. 

‘Do you think she’ll stay  here, Daenerys I mean?’ She took a sip of her honeyed wine, sweet and cool for the warm evening. Tyrion was looking out of his window. 

‘You don’t?’ 

‘I’m not sure. She doesn’t seem glad to be here.’ The sun was just setting in the distance. It was to be a clear night, with bright stars up ahead. 

‘Are you? And I don’t mean are you glad to visit. I mean are you glad to be a prisoner here?’ He set his cup down gently and turned to meet her eyes. 

‘Of  course I’m not glad. But we’re here out of choice, even if it seems we aren’t. I  _ was  _ a prisoner in King’s Landing but I’m free to leave here if I wish, as is she.’ 

‘You’d let her walk off? On her own?’ One corner of his mouth twitched in a small smirk. 

She sighed. ‘No. I just worry she’ll do  _ something _ \- I know she’s not insane but well, confinement brings out the worst in people.’ 

He took a step closer. ‘ So is this the  _ worst  _ version of yourself? Sansa Stark with nothing to her name but the crown on her head. Is that what you want me to believe?’

Sansa shook her head. ‘I don’t think I’m the worst version of myself – that was the girl falling over her feet for Joffrey. I’m sure I’m the most stressed I’ve ever been though. Everything is so tense yet nothing at all is happening. Sometimes I look out of my window and pray I see Stannis coming over the hill.’ 

‘Stressed?’ She was sat on the edge of the bed and he pushed himself up next to her. ‘I thought you hardy Northerners were too stubborn for stress.’ Even so, he took one of her hands in his and rubbed his thumb in small circles across the back of it. 

‘Usually, yes. But by rule, any Northerner south of the Causeway is in danger. My mother used to say there should always be a Stark in Winterfell and my father told my brothers going South would only lead to suffering. I suppose I should’ve listened.’ 

_ I will not be just another dead Stark, far from home.  _

_ ‘ _ My father used to say people only went North to die.’ He  lifted her hand and pressed his lips gently onto it. ‘And yet-’

She allowed herself a laugh. ‘For once, I have to say, I might agree with Lord Tywin.’ 

‘Gods, that’s terrifying.’ He squinted for a moment then nodded his head, making some silent decision. ‘Turn around- please.’ 

‘Hmm?’ She scrunched up her nose at first, but his face was perfectly set in all seriousness. She did as she was bid and turned away from him. The bed shifted slightly as he shuffled a little closer, and she shivered when his hands reached outward and took hold of her shoulders. He applied a light pressure with his fingers whilst his thumb pushed into her back, running back and forth along her shoulder-blades and the very top of her ribs. 

‘Can’t have the Queen in the North so tense, can we?’ He leant in towards her and spoke directly into her ear in his usual cheery tone. She couldn’t help it as her hairs stood on end across the exposed skin on the back of her neck. He exhaled a laugh through his nose at her reaction. ‘Feeling better?’

_ Gods help me. _

‘M-hm.’ At each of his steady but marginally forceful  matriculations , she felt another load slipping off of her back. Her shoulders sat further back and the weight heavy in her chest appeared to be lifting. 

‘Good,’ she heard the smirk in his voice and then, if she had any further doubts, she felt it, as his mouth made contact with her bare skin at the nape of her neck. Her hair was sitting at one shoulder, and he took advantage of the opportunity, his lips, soft and careful, exploring the normally unseen flesh. Yet he wasn’t satisfied with the portion he was allotted, and he began to wander across, to the neckline of her gown. He dropped one hand from her shoulder and gave a gentle tug on her sleeve, which gave away without resistance. He pressed onwards, eager to pay homage to every inch he was allowed to entertain. When he reached the dip in her shoulder, she gasped, quite involuntarily, and he chuckled. 

Every spot he touched sung out in sweetness and fire. Hot and begging to be touched more, filled with a need she had never felt to strongly. When he’d kissed her before, in that very room just days ago, she’d felt something, an urge she could not describe, but it had been fleeting and went unsated. Yet now, each of his painfully slow movements shot sparks across her back and heat spread throughout her entire body. Need was something Sansa was familiar with, but wants and desires were rare. She had needed safety, and her home, then simply to survive; all else was provided for. This feeling, so new and encapsulating, wasn’t a foreign desire or wicked thought that clouded her judgement, it was a need that she felt with every breath and every time his lips made contact with her skin. 

‘Tyrion-’ She mumbled, quieter than she expected and lower. 

He immediately pulled away from her, coughing gently as if to excuse himself from his own rooms. She turned around to face him, unable to hide her blush or the smile spreading from cheek to cheek. 

‘Lock the door.’ 

_ What am I saying?  _ Even Tyrion seemed surprised to hear her words and the manner in which she looked over him. But he still pushed himself from the bed and did as asked, pulling out a key from his belt and turning it in the door before the satisfying  _ click  _ filled the expectant silence. While his back was turned, she stood and reached her arms behind her. 

When she met his eyes once again, they were filled with a dark hunger. The green still stuck out, even in the gloom, but they were tinged with something deeper she had yet to see. With a few, well-practised hand movements, her bodice came away and she dropped it carefully onto the floor. Whilst Tyrion stood in silence, she deftly untied the back of her skirt, and let it fall in waves of red and gold at her feet. 

He swallowed hard. 

Her shift was comfortable, light, loose and simple. It felt strange for her to lean over and gather the hem in her hands, but she did so anyway, without much of a thought. 

‘Sansa-’ The voice that stopped her was a soft one, but Tyrion’s face when she looked up was stricken in some kind of pain. 

She straightened back up. ‘Yes?’ 

He stepped towards her, closing the great distance between them that had emerged, and took her hands in his own. His skin was warm to the touch and her fingertips rested on his wrist so she could feel the heightened thump of his heart. ‘Is this what you want? You know that I’d never-’

She dropped to her knees, uncaring about the hard-wooden floor beneath her, and pressed their joint hands against her scarred cheek. ‘This is what I want. What I’ve been wanting ever since I left you in King’s Landing – the second time that is.’ 

‘You’re not afraid?’ He tilted his head. 

‘Never.’ She proved it by leaning in and letting their lips meet once more. At the same time, Sansa took his hand from her cheek and directed him in pushing the strap of her shift off of her shoulder. 

At that, his hunger took over. With one hand, he seized hold of her neck, pushing them closer together but never too roughly. He followed her direction in helping her out of the thin material that held her modesty. While her stomach turned in circles at the thought of her shift dropping away and revealing herself, completely, another part of her silently screamed for it to finally be gone. Its lightness had become heavy and its simplicity had grown boring. 

His lips left hers and moved instead to her ear. ‘Stand up.’ She felt compelled to obey. As she did so, the white underclothes slipped away. She expected to seize up as the cold hit her, but the warmth that bloomed across her skin was enough to keep away the chill. She also thought she might cross her arms over herself, clothe herself once again in a shroud of embarrassment – but she didn’t. She knew what men could be like. They fawned over women’s bodies like pieces of prize meat that needed inspection. They liked to prod and squeeze and judge every portion of it and then tell the poor heifer exactly what they thought. 

Tyrion’s eyes did not look over her in such a leer. They swept over every part of her, taking it all in in equal proportions in admiration instead of obsession. He looked in such a way, she wandered if he was trying to burn the image into his memory just by staring long enough. 

‘You are,’ he shook his head, ‘sublime.’ 

‘I-’ She didn’t know what to say. No one had called her ‘sublime’ before. She wandered if anyone had ever been called that before, in such a situation. The Gods were sublime by their nature but her, in a chamber of  Casterly Rock, stripped of her home, her people and, of course, her clothes –  surely she did not deserve the praise. 

‘I’m at a disadvantage.’ She decided upon, raising her brows. 

He pressed his lips together, ‘well, we can’t be having that.’ 

On that occasion, with only a single cup of ale sitting in a full stomach, he dealt with his buttons with ease, removing his doublet and breeches in a minute. He kicked away his shoes and returned to her, in his own underclothes, suddenly apprehensive. 

She hadn’t seen such a look in his eyes before. His smile still clung to his lips yet his eyes did not match them. There was a doubt in them, a fear, that made him  hesitate and look to her for guidance. 

Tyrion found himself suddenly stuck. His heart was beating like a drum that rattled through his skull, eager with anticipation that he couldn’t deny. Yet, his mind had completely stopped. She stood before him, tall and slim but with a strong frame that only added to the vision before him. His eyes grew lost in her curves, at the round of her breast and the line of her collar. His hands itched to reach out and embrace her completely but, stood in his shift, he questioned himself. 

_ When did I last have a woman?  _ He didn’t want to think it, but the thought came nonetheless. Since Shae, the cursed whore, he’d sworn off women; he could no longer find joy in they forced smiles and contrived noises of pleasure. They were a fantasy he allowed himself to live in, for a while. Even Shae was just like that, though he had convinced himself she was different. Sansa Stark  _ was  _ different though – she was noble, a Queen, and a force he couldn’t hope to contain. She had grown up, as young, well-bred ladies do, on tales of knights and princes, dashing and charming. Her dreams would’ve once been filled with those innocent ideals, and he could never hope to live up to them. 

‘Tyrion?’ She had noticed his moment of stillness and dropped down once more in front of him. While her skin glowed with a rosy hew, she appeared unabashed by her own nakedness. The fear had passed her. He met her eyes.  _ Why must they be so blue?  _

_ ‘ _ Is it me you want, Sansa?’ He sighed as he spoke.  _ I sound such a fool. ‘ _ You could have whatever man you chose.’

‘But I don’t want any man.’ She smiled. ‘I want you.’ 

_ The Septon’s were right, the Gods are good. _

Her hands moved forward and, at his nod, she slowly relieved him of the last layer of clothing. He felt like hers were the first eyes to look upon him – the only ones that mattered, at the very least. She rested her hands upon his chest and leaned in close to his ear. 

‘Take me to bed,’ she breathed, ‘Tyrion-’

_ Fuck, she’ll be the end of me. _

Sansa Stark and Tyrion Lannister lost themselves beneath the furs. Hands, like that of an artist, swept over the canvases in exploration, in appreciation and in a newfound familiarity. It was a first for the both of them, and neither wanted to see it over quickly. They took their time with their matriculations, teasing and testing then gaging, from their reactions, what to do again. It was not as simple as Sansa had expected or as she’d heard and there was a great deal more giggling than she could be prepared for. When Tyrion finally entered her, she squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for great pain and discomfort – but it never came. It was a strange feeling, but she didn’t dislike it. Then, when he began to move, she found she liked it quite a lot. 

The feeling that had ignited at the base of her stomach, the longing that drove her onwards, only grew, and with it came small sounds that escaped her body she didn’t know she had the capacity to make. The sounds became heavy breaths, which were soon moans she tried to muffle by burying her head in his shoulder. Then she found herself cursing and, though she didn’t mean it, breathing his name like a small prayer. He seemed to like that particularly. 

Then something changed. A feeling of something unexplainable washed over her and her whole body shuddered, her back arching upwards to meet him and her mouth opening in a silent scream. Everything ceased to exist. His lips found hers and were all she could feel. The room faded away, the keep faded away, the entirety of Westeros was nothing but a distant memory. He tumbled over the edge just after her and she held onto him, eyes pressed shut, savouring the moment of pure bliss and nothing else at all. 

Tyrion rested his head on her shoulder, holding tightly to her hand beneath the covers. She stared up at the canopy – lions danced above them. They had not said a word – she did not know what needed to be said. Then, something occurred to her, something that was long due. 

She brought his hand up to her lips and pressed them against his knuckles. He turned on his side to see her, eyes sparkling by the moonlight. She had never seen anything so  spectacular –  _ so sublime.  _

‘Sansa?’ He squeezed her hand. She shuffled slightly forward so their foreheads just met. 

She breathed steadily. ‘I am yours and you are mine.’ 

He shook his head lightly and chuckled. 

‘I am yours and you are mine.’

They sealed it with a kiss. 


	11. The Corner of the Board

The road from Moat Cailin to Winterfell had never felt longer. Perhaps it was the urgency of her travelling, or longing for the horse that had been stolen while she slept. More likely , Arya Stark considered, it was the loneliness. She’d travelled alone before, for many years in fact, but more recently her adventures had been shared. Now Gendry was at Storm’s End at the other end of the realm and she was plodding her way up the King’s Road, praying each day for a carriage to pass and take her North. 

Getting North was no problem. As she had expected, plastering on a face and slipping in with the rest of the crowds at the Causeway had allowed her to pass through without question. She’d purchased a horse on the other side and rode a day before it was taken, nearly from right under her. Still, her legs still worked and she carried on – even as the road stretched out beneath her and she feared she’d never reach Winterfell. 

Then, there it was. Weeks after leaving her sister and the others, Arya spotted the round towers of the familiar keep in the near distance. She picked up her speed then and, by the early afternoon, she was walking through the front gates, without a blink in her direction. 

Upon first sight, Winterfell was just as they’d left it. Men worked in the yards, women floated around in their cloaks and the youngest boys and girls smacked together wooden sticks under the close scrutiny of the Master-at-arms. Yet the air tasted different. She looked to find more men lining the walls than she’d seen since the days of the dead. Guards on the ground kept their eyes on the gates and extra crates of freshly fletched arrows were placed at convenient points, just in case. 

_So,_ _word of the_ _Baratheons_ _has reached them – why then, has no one sent a bloody army to smash them back into the rocks they belong on? Where’s Bran in all of this?_

When she entered the council chambers, it was not her brother that greeted her, but Maester Thomos, who seemed to have aged decades in the few years since she’d seen him. He bore the signs of fatigue – eyes almost lost in deep set dark bags. The maester, and the few other members of the council her sister had left behind, looked up towards her when she entered and opened their mouths to speak. 

“Princess Arya?” It was Jeyne Poole, or rather, Greyjoy, that spoke first. With Theon departed, she’d been left to manage the keep, with the maester acting in Sansa’s place and Podrick Payne as castellan. 

“My lady.” She replied in greeting but also as a correction. There was nothing in the world she hated more than being called ‘princess’ and having everyone bow to her and refuse to meet her eye. _Sansa may take great pleasure out of it all, but I think I’d kill myself rather than be anyone’s Queen._

“You bring news of the Queen?” The Maester spluttered out, at last. He was always over-anxious and tripped over his words. “We haven’t heard from her, some of us feared-” 

“She’s not dead.” She watched the relief wash over them. “But they’re stuck in the South. She sent me here to call the banners but, why haven’t any of you done it anyway?” 

They looked between themselves. 

“It’s not our place, to make such decisions.” Jeyne offered up, somewhat meekly. 

“It bloody is. Your Queen left you in charge and you sit here and twiddle your shit while she’s Gods know where dealing with Gods know what.” She sighed. “Has there been word from my brother?” 

“Brandon?” Thomos frowned. “Not that I recall. Did you mean to meet him here?” 

“I had hoped to,” she grumbled to herself adding _where has that piece of shit got himself to. He tells Sansa she’s in danger but keeps his frozen arse thousands of leagues away._

“Nevermind. Stannis is moving South Sansa needs the men. Send out ravens, maester, and you better pray to all the Gods out there that they fly fast enough. If anything happens to Sansa, it’ll be on your heads.” 

She hadn’t expected the anger, but it swelled within her like a river about to burst its banks. She’d hoped at least Poole would have the gall to put down her foot and put something in motion. The North hadn’t expected Stannis, that was clear, but that didn’t mean it had to freeze in shock and let a dead man ruin the rest of Westeros. 

The Maester scurried from the room, bent double from the weight of his chains, and she moved to follow him and find herself a cup of hot ale and some stew to soothe her stomach. And yet, she found herself pursued. 

“Arya?” Jeyne Poole clattered down the hall after her, struggling to catch up with her firm stride. Eventually, she relented and slowed down. 

“Yes?” 

“I’m glad to see you well, and to hear that the Queen is well too.” 

“Yes-” 

“But, you never mentioned Theon. Is he with Sansa? Is he well?” 

Arya kept her feet moving and her eyes dead ahead. _Sometimes I like to play a little game- no. Not this time._ She stopped and looked up towards the older woman. Jeyne Poole was fair, with the dark hair and kindly smile of her father, who’d been Ned Stark’s steward. Now she those kindly eyes fell onto Arya expectantly and she stood at an odd angle, with her hands grabbing and releasing each other. 

_Shit, shit, shit. Now, Arya, time to tell the poor woman that her husband is dead and probably smashed to bits still at the helm of a sunken ship. Marvellous._

“He’s dead Jeyne.” Silence. “He died when Stannis destroyed our ship. He was trying to get us to safety but he didn’t get off in time.” 

She knew it sounded heartless, to say it so plainly. But she also knew the alternative was much worse. No woman in mourning wanted to hear another weeping and crying while trying to break the news. It wasn’t that she felt nothing for Theon, she’d thought of him often when she made her way North, but she knew her pain would be nothing to that of Jeyne and for that, she had to be the strong one. It was a little lie, but a harmless one. 

She left Jeyne where she was, in a wordless cry, and continued towards the kitchens. There was no comfort she could offer that would dry her tears. Pain had to be felt or it would build inside and corrode everything it reached. It was her right to scream and beat the walls and thrash out until she grew tired. Then she would hide away in her chambers and refuse the outside world because the truth would be there. Then slowly, gradually, she would return to life and remember who she was and who she can be. Arya had seen enough death with the faceless men to know the process of grieving well and, when she lost Jon, she’d felt each stage herself, if it was a little delayed by their trip South to gut the city of Cersei Lannister. 

It still hurt her to think of her brother, but it wasn’t a devastating blow like it had once been. She could hear his name without tearing up and used to take trips to the weirwood without breaking down. Jeyne would one day be able to do the same. She just would need to go through everything else first. 

_But in the meantime – we make war._

Sansa breathed in the sweet, aromatic fumes and breathed out across the cup in an attempt to cool it down. She sat up in bed, furs resting across her chest and took small, delicate sips of the tea. After each attempt, she pulled a sour face and swallowed only because it would’ve looked too strange for her to spit it out. 

“Still not a fan?” 

“I asked for more honey but I swear this one has even less.” She set the cup down in the vain hope that her tastebuds would completely change before she picked it up again. She looked across to Tyrion, pulling on his boots, who was chuckling at her. 

“Well it’s drink that or the alternative.” He intentionally averted his eyes from her but she scowled none the less. She knew precisely what he meant by ‘the alternative’ and she also knew he was holding it over her. She had told him the day before that she had every right to complain about the taste of the moon tea, because it was her who had to drink it, and not him. Tyrion had then gone on to remind her she didn’t have to drink it at all, then she wouldn’t be complaining. That had earnt him a punch to the arm and a huff. 

“I think _you_ should have to drink it. In fact, all men should – then there would be a lot less fatherless bastards running about.” She slipped from her furs and wandered over to her dresser. That night, they had remained in her rooms instead of his. She pulled forth a fresh, crisp set of underclothes and stepped into them, then bent over, pursuing her borrowed gowns. She glanced outside, a spring shower was waging war on the gardens, and selected a thicker gown in blue and silver instead of the usual red and gold. 

“But then your own sister wouldn’t have a husband. Would you damn her to a solitary life to spare yourself a cup of tea? I’m sure she endures it without complaint.” 

“To shut you up? In a second.” Then she really thought on what he had said and baulked. “And if you ever speak to me of my sister’s bedroom habits, I promise I will never grace your bed again.” 

_“Grace_ my bed”’ He buttoned up his doublet. 

“That _is_ why they call me ‘your grace’.” She shot him a smirk. 

Once dressed, she finished off the now cold tea and braided her hair away. 

“Any plans for today”’ Tyrion accompanied her towards the hall where a small array of plates had been set up with hot eggs and bacon. The whole room was warmed by the smell of freshly baked bread, keeping out the cold from the rain outside. 

“The same as ever.” She spooned herself some of the eggs. “I’ll wait for news, what else can I do”’ It always put her in a sour mood to be reminded of her own helplessness. Every moment Stannis grew closer yet she remained where she was, going about her day, as Daenerys had said, as if nothing was the matter. The dragon had stayed true to her word and did not dine with them, taking her food with only Missandei for company. However, it didn’t take long for the table to fill with those she’d brought North with her. They all bore the same expression of glum boredom but it faded a little as they shared the meagre feast. 

No one yet had mentioned her and Tyrion. She wondered if anyone even had a thought about it. She was only careful for the sake of her cousin Robin. While he’d assured her he fully supported her dismissal of his heir Harrold as her husband, she thought appearing at Tyrion’s side so quickly may strike a less pleasant chord. It was not some great struggle to continue as normal. She didn’t find herself desperate for affection and company, and neither did he. She sometimes had to fight to contain a blush or bite her tongue to stop her saying something that would give their game away, but otherwise she continued her less than full days and spent her nights in the warmth of his arms. 

The rain continued to hammer down on every glass pane, the heaviest she’d seen that year, putting out all hopes of walking the gardens. _I shall spend the day over my letters._ They were her chief form of entertainment. She’d gone through most households she could think of, weighing up whether asking them for support would be worth the parchment and ink, and largely found it wouldn’t. But, she’d still sent some ravens off and spent the afternoon pacing, wondering if any of her seedlings would sprout. As of yet, they hadn’t. The Queen in the North meant little to these people and to get involved in the coming war didn’t hold many benefits. She had become so familiar with the maester that, just by his expression, she knew that there were no letters to be read. 

A loud knock at the furthermost doors of the hall shook her from her thoughts. She’d cleared her plate and was sipping at her honeyed-milk, not paying much attention to those around her. At the noise though, she leapt up. She wasn’t sure whether it was because she had been thinking about her letters, but her mind flew to all the possibilities as to who could’ve come to them so early in the morning. Her heart longed to see her sister safe and, in possible, with a stream of men at her back. Another part of her imagined a knight with Stannis’ head at the end of his pike, bowing low and presenting it to them like a trophy. It wouldn’t be pleasant, but he’d killed Theon and his death would solve a great number of her problems. 

Yet it was neither, but a third, unexpected option she hadn’t considered- a woman, heavy with child; a young boy, clinging to her skirts; and a knight, just removing his helmet and shaking out his hair. _I know them._ She had to blink to be sure, she hadn’t seen them in such a long time. 

“Lady Roslin?” 

“Your Grace?” 

_Gods, here we go again._

Lady Roslin Tully was soaked through so was taken away immediately to be bathed and dressed in fresh, warmed thick robes. Her boy too, emerged alongside her, auburn hair fluffed up and his cheeks a healthy pink. Their knight had had the same treatment and, under his mistress’s orders, was resting in the rooms upstairs. 

Sansa found her aunt leant back in a chair, her feet pointed towards a fire that burnt the cold from outside away. Her son, young Hoster, sat closer, cross-legged and warming his hands with a smile. 

“Are you hurt?” She began in earnest, looking over the woman stretched out before her. The figure shook her head and opened her eyes. 

“I’m well now, though I thought I might have frozen in that rain.” Sansa couldn’t deny she’d feared the same. They’d come in dripping with teeth chattering and hair slick to their pale faces. 

“And you, cousin?” She took the seat nearest to the fire and laid a hand on Hoster’s mess of curls, brighter than her own. 

“Better now.” He hummed, keeping his focus fixed on the fire ahead. Sansa had met her cousin several times, once on her way North and a few more times since. He was already eight years old and looked more like his father every day. 

“Where’s Edmure?” She began. She didn’t need the story of why they were there – she could guess most of it and had spoken to the knight before he’d slipped away. Stannis had taken Riverrun. Roslin and her son had been snuck out by Edmure and sent to Casterly Rock to ask the Lannister’s help. It was near enough the same story that Robin Arryn had told just a week prior. Stannis was moving South fast, far faster than any of them had expected, and was leaving a trail of taken keeps in his wake. 

Roslin eyes had teared up. Sansa reached forward and grasped her hand. “I don’t know.” She managed to splutter. “He told me he’d fetch me back when those bastard Baratheons were gone but”’ Now she broke down, collapsing into herself. Hoster didn’t look up. 

Sansa jolted forward and wrapped her arms carefully around her aunt. “He’ll be fine.” She spoke into the woman’s brown hair, “he survived the Lannisters before, he can survive this.” The Lannisters had taken Edmure captive after his wedding- the wedding that had seen Sansa’s mother and brother ripped from the world. Roslin had been kept as well, not quite a prisoner but not free either. By the time they were both free, their son was already two years old and had never seen his father. Yet they had survived and, from what she could tell, rebuilt what had been stripped from them. When Sansa said - ‘he can survive this’ she really meant ‘and so can you’. 

When Roslin had calmed herself and stopped sniffing, Sansa sat back down on her chair. Then came the questions that she’d answered too many times. _Why aren’t you in the North, where’s your sister, what are you doing here with Tyrion Lannister?_ She answered them with a sigh, wondering how many more good men and women would find themselves struck from their own homes for the sake of Stannis’ clutching claws. 

When it was clear the Tully bride was too drained to bear anymore, Sansa left them both, parting from her cousin with hand rubbing his bent back. She kept herself upright as she walked away, but when the door shut behind her, she fell against the wall and balled her hand into a fist. 

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck...._

“They could be here in a matter of days.” Daenerys Targaryen looked out across the sea, it was the one place they could be sure no enemies would wash up. 

“Or weeks, or months- maybe never at all.” Tyrion offered in a chirp. She did her best to ignore him. 

“Tully said she knew you were here. Arryn knew you were here. What makes you think Stannis won’t know too?” 

“He never was the brightest of the bunch – if you asked the three brothers to sit down and take a look over the city’ books I swear they would-” 

“I do not care how Stannis’ book-keeping is. I care about his men and how soon they will be here to slaughter us all!” She threw up her hands and glanced across at him. She knew Tyrion well enough to know his humour was only masking his concern. He believed they were stuck and awaiting execution just as much as she did, but his japes did nothing to quell the thumping of her heart. 

“What I mean to say,” he raised his eyebrows and spoke carefully, “is that there still may be way we avoid complete decimation. Stannis is a good general. He knows where to put men and what they should do – but he’s not the best. Need I remind you that he lost at Blackwater and in the North.” 

“He’s already taken White Harbour, Moat Cailin, the Eeyrie and Riverrun. Do you mean to tell me they don’t matter?” Daenerys turned back to the horizon. She was still waiting for Drogon, now that they needed him more than ever. 

“He took them by surprise, or through treachery and, not to sound proud, none of those keeps had any of us when he attacked. Stannis is one general, one general who’s plans nearly got him killed. Do you not think that together we may be able to outwit him?” 

She shrugged. “I don’t know the man. All I know is that he and his brothers took my family from me before I even got the chance to know them. Now-” 

“Now he’s taking away all we worked on before we have the chance to see it.” The doors had opened and, in her strange Lannister livery, Sansa Stark joined them. “I feel like I’ve worked my entire life to see peace, and now its crumbling around us. I can’t stop now.” The rain was only gentle, and the Queen in the North did not move to raise the hood of her cloak. 

“How’s Lady Tully?” Tyrion glanced upwards. 

“Bearing up. Roslin’s a Frey, they’re hardier than they appear.” 

Daenerys wasn’t listening. She did not care about some Tully-Frey and her child. She did not care about her coming to them tired and soaked through. She cared about the news she brought and the great weight it brought upon them all. _I’ll feel sympathy for her when I done feeling it for myself._

“So now what?” She began, rising her voice slightly in case they planned anymore comments on the Frey woman. “And don’t say ‘we’ll wait’.” 

She felt the Queen in the North’s crystalline blue eyes resting comfortably one her. As usual, Sansa held herself upright and still. 

“We’ll wait.” 

“I may not have the experience with these men as you do, but from where I see it, you’re inviting Stannis to kill you.” 

“Technically, I doubt he’d kill any of us. We’re worth more alive than we ever could be dead.” Tyrion’s back was turned to the both of them, but his voice carried over the ravine with a slight echo. 

“But he’ll kill every man protecting us- every man sworn to your family, Tyrion.” She couldn’t imagine Stannis as an honourable captor either. 

“Men die – that is war.” 

“But if there’s a chance that they won’t. If I could take Drogon I could see it over in minutes.” 

She could see Sansa Stark mulling it over. The image of a dead Stannis Baratheon flicked over her eyes. 

“Stannis deserves execution. He’s plundered the North and South with no claim, but-” 

Daenerys felt the urge to throw something. “But what? Is a hanging any kinder? Is having his head off?” 

The Queen inhaled sharply. From the corner of her eye, Dany caught Tyrion glance up quickly. 

“I was going to say,’ Sansa continued, ‘that I see no dragon here.” 

Now Tyrion sprung forward. “Sansa, I thought you said-” 

“That I wouldn’t send a dragon after him? Yes, I did. But back then he was hiding away in halls. Now I’m certain he’ll be moving in this direction. If we could get him in the field, if Drogon’s aim was sure, it could be done.” 

Daenerys could tell this was only a recent decision by the slight quaver in her voice. By the time she’d finished, however, she seemed certain. 

“And if he doesn’t arrive? You plan to fight him in the field?” Her once-Hand began pacing along the stone platform. 

“That would be suicide,” Sansa chuckled. “If Stannis wants the Rock, he can take it by siege. We don’t have the men or the arms, but we have walls. If we can prolong him long enough, others may arrive in time to give us aid. If we fought on the field, it would be over in a matter of minutes.” 

“And if they don’t come, your sister and Gendry?” Daenerys now re-joined the conversation. 

“Then Stannis will take us, chain us up and storm through the realm. But that won’t happen.” 

“The odds are stacked quite high against us, Sansa.” 

Daenerys’ averted her gaze briefly to the Lannister Lord beside her. There was something in the way he spoke Sansa’s name that had changed. There was the familiarity anyone would expect for two who had known each other so long and through so much but there was something more. He implored her with a kindness only just detectable and a quirk of the lips whenever she spoke. 

_Gods-_

“We’ll defeat Stannis. He’s the one in the wrong, reaching for something he doesn’t deserve. I defeated the Boltons, because they had taken my home and Ramsay was cruel. We defeated the dead because they were abhorrent monsters who only wished to destroy. We defeated Cersei because she was a tyrant. We’ve been fighting for honour and justice since the beginning, what’s to stop us seeing it through to the end?” The wind had picked up, it whipped at strands of her auburn hair but she made no effort to calm them. 

“You think honour wins wars?” Daenerys raised her eyebrows at the naivety of it all. “I’ve seen many a dishonourable man ruling over his betters. It is men that win wars.” 

“Men, yes, which we do not have. But it is also their hearts. A just cause can spur a man twice as fast as any an unjust. I know how it looks to you, and I see it too. To any eye, we’re fucked. I’d bet a great sum of silver on our imminent death or capture. But I remember watching Jon standing alone on the battlefield as the entire Bolton army rained death upon him. I remember watching out men cut down by their far greater numbers but my brother standing up, sword in hand, facing them nonetheless. If numbers meant anything, the Boltons should’ve slaughtered us that day, even with the Dornish behind us, but they didn’t. Ramsay did not deserve victory, and he did not get it. Stannis deserves even less.” 

Dany pressed her lips together for a moment. She pictured Jon Snow on the battlefield all alone. _I wish I could’ve been there._

She shook her head. “So, we have to rely on honour?” 

“If your dragon doesn’t appear, and neither does Arya or Gendry? It’ll be all we have.” Sansa’s voice was firm but it did nothing to assure her. Her eyes flicked back up to the sky, searching still for the black wings that would mean their salvation. 

_I’d rather a sword and shield than to go to battle with only my honour, but if this is all we have?_ She turned her back on them both and leant across the railing that kept her from plummeting into the rocky shallows. With everything else around them, the rough crashing and churning against the cliff was calm and soothing. Footsteps trailing off told her she was alone. She breathed in a deep lungful of sea air. 

_Come to me, my child. A dragon should not fall at the hands of a stag. Come to me, and we will feast on enough venison for a life time. Come to me._

The Baratheons came in the night. It was a week since Roslin Tully has arrived soaking on their doorstep and Stannis had followed closely on her heels. That evening, the fields were still, the road empty and the keep sedated. By the morning, the fields blossomed with tents like great wounds, the roads were kicked up with dust and the castle woke. 

“Sansa-” Tyrion Lannister drew open the curtains, as he did most mornings, and after his eyes adjusted to the glare of the rising sun, he had to keep blinking them to be sure. Rows of men stretched ahead of them. The walls built to protect them had become a prison and he could already feel the air thinning. 

“Stannis is here.” She spoke wistfully, still half asleep in bed. She didn’t need to look out of the window to know it, she knew it before she’d even opened her eyes. She felt different, changed – her muscles already taut and ready for action. She had known he was coming for a week now yet, to know he was feet below them, baying for blood, it was somewhat amusing. She broke out in a smile as she forced herself up and beside Tyrion. They peered out in just their shifts and an army stared back. Now she laughed, heartily. She felt a certain mania overcome her. They had prepared all they could in the short time – food stores from Lannisport, men crammed inside from all around, the weak and vulnerable sent away – yet she knew it was nothing compared to the force that would fall upon them. 

“A strange time to laugh.” He murmured looking over her in suspicion. 

“If I don’t, I will cry.” She bent down a pressed her lips quickly against his cheek and strode towards the chest of clothes. Before she reached them, however, she found herself caught in his grip and tugged back towards the window. 

“You must be careful – if we can just prolong any attacks long enough-” 

“I remember Blackwater,” she smirked, “I’ve been under siege by Stannis before, do you recall how that ended?” 

“I can’t see the Tyrell’s coming to be our saviours now.” He let her go and she resumed dressing. 

“I think your father would sooner return from his grave to support us than Margaery Tyrell, but that does not mean we’re alone.” She pulled out a dress and began fitting the bodice. 

“You still have faith?” 

“That my sister and her betrothed reached their destination and aren’t dead in a ditch?” She tilted her head. “I do. If I didn’t, we might as well hand ourselves to Stannis now and save the trouble.” 

“Aye.” He was still looking out of the window at the assembled men that seemed to go on forever. There was a twinkle in his eye that came with opportunity. Even in the direst of situations, he saw a silver-lining beyond her vision. 

All she could see was Arya- her body mangled and twisted; her face unrecognisable. At first, she was sure she was wearing one of her disguises, the skin of another. But then she could just pick out a few features- her oversized eyes, her wide mouth and look of cunning etched in her expression infinitely. Her stomach churned, though she knew it was just her imagination. She gathered her head, secured her skirt and fussed with her hair before fixing the silver crown high up on her head. _Now you must be queen, and Sansa Stark too. We face war, and they need you, or they will crumble. They need the Queen in the North, and Stannis Baratheon is nothing beside a true ruler._

She took a last look out of the window – not at the armies below, but far on the horizon where the hills and sky became one. From the North, Arya would arrive, men streaming at her back and shouting for the honour of their Queen. From the South would come Gendry, with his men from the Stormlands, finally putting down the pretender King. She sent her prayers; she closed her eyes and touched a finger to the silver direwolf broach at her throat. A wolf was nothing without her pack, her father’s gift reminded her of that. She pictured Arya once again, strong and ahead of a charge. _Come to me._

Across the hall, Brienne of Tarth, knight of the realm and Commander of the Northern Queensguard, paced the ground. Her window, though showing a different stretch of land, painted the same picture of black and gold, barely an inch of green visible. She’d dressed in plate as soon as she saw the view, which earnt her a round of tuts from the direction of her bed. 

“You don’t need to do that” Jaime Lannister was still under the furs, sat up against the back of the bed, his chest bare against the morning air. 

“Come look for yourself-” she gestured towards the window she kept a constant eye on. 

“I know what an army looks like.” He sighed, turning to the stand beside him and reaching for his iron hand that fitted to the stump of his hand with a short _click_. “Please, sit down, you’re driving me insane.” 

She refused, letting out an exasperated breath. “How can you be so calm? I know you don’t value your life that highly but- Gods Jaime!” 

He shrugged off the furs and swung his legs over onto the floor. “Have you ever seen a siege before?” 

She shook her head, turning towards him, only to frown. 

“Put some clothes on, Jaime.” 

“Answer my question.” He took a step closer, amused at her carefully averted eyes. Brienne the knight was different to the Brienne that frequented his bed, and she made sure to keep the distinction between them clear. 

“No, I have not.” Her eyes moved back towards the grounds of the Rock, surveying the forces that would face them. He could see her counting their numbers, jotting down their siege weapons, their calvary, their officer tents. 

“Well,” he reached out and rubbed a hand across her arm, “they take time – months even. It’ll take days to put up the trebuchets, they’ll take their time forming up their battleplans. Perhaps he’ll raid Lannisport for a week, to try and force our hand. Whatever he does, in here is the safest place in Westeros. Save your energy for when Sansa is actually in danger.” 

She continued looking out the window, but he could see the ghost of contemplation on her face. He knew her well enough to know her struggle, it was the same one he’d faced as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. _She wants to do whatever she can to protect her Queen, but sometimes, doing nothing is all we can do._ He smirked a little to himself. _Either that or putting a sword in their back._

She huffed and turned on him, drawing the curtains shut tightly as if to block out Stannis Baratheon with a piece of fabric. Her eyes fell on him, his bare skin and hair loose and unkempt from sleep. Then she looked down upon herself, dressing in nearly full armour, sword at her belt and helmet within reach. She laughed, unnaturally sweetly, the blue in her eyes bright even in the darkness. In another moment she was fiddling with the leather straps of her plate, a sudden urge to rid herself of the burden overcoming her. 

He knew he could offer little help to her, so found a pair of breeches for himself and tugged them on, followed by a thick undershirt and a leather jacket that cut off halfway down his thighs. He left it unbuttoned, and returned to Brienne, who had managed to get herself down to her underclothes, casting the metal aside (carefully). 

When she had finished, Jaime reached upwards and pressed his lips gingerly against her waiting for her to bring her great hand to his neck to pull him closer, as she usually did. This time was no exception. 

She pulled away. 

“I should go see the Queen.” 

He laughed low. “Why should you? I assure you she’ll have plenty of company in my brother’s bed.” 

She stepped away. “What?” 

“They’re fucking like animals.” He spoke offhand, gesturing to the rooms where they would undoubtedly be. He raised an eyebrow towards her. “Don’t tell me you haven’t seen.” 

“Seen what?” She drew her hands upon her hips but was caught in an expression of worry. The great Commander of the Queensguard had missed something oh so obvious. 

“Oh, where to begin. First, it’s the eyes that just say _come to me-”_

Lannisport had emptied before the army came. Merchants scrambled back on their ships and took out to sea, perhaps down to Oldtown or up around the land and back up towards Blackwater Bay. Those that lived there had fled into the keep that overlooked the port, or boarded up their houses and prayed their efforts would protect from Baratheon raiding parties. The streets were empty, bar a few rats enjoying the freedom, the inns ran dry and the brothels sat silent. 

Casterly Rock has been under siege for three days when a dark mass appeared on the horizon. They hadn’t noticed it within their walls, to them it could’ve been a low cloud, or a trick of the light. Later they’d notice it, as it grew is size- the darkness spreading across the ocean wide and constant like the wind. 

The ships moved swiftly, quietly, and with their normal sails swapped for plan blacks and greys. It was unsafe to be known in these waters, and far saner not to go around with family sigils plastered across every empty space. The central ship, a war galley known for its force, slipped through the waters, cutting a straight path for the others that followed behind. Each captain was in tune with the rest and the mass moved as one, even when stray winds threatened to break them apart. 

The captain of the commanding ship stood at the prow, pointing an eyeglass in the direction of the port. There was little to be seen, but at least it appeared they had no worry about finding space to dock their ships. It was the land they were heading for, strangely enough, however much the men bred for sailors complained. Their captain dismissed their concerns. There was no way to fight at sea if the enemy already stands on land especially with Casterly Rock standing in the way. The captain put away their tool and turned back to the ship, keeping their usual close eye on every member of the crew. They were keeping a tight formation but any slip up would cost them their position. 

They looked over across the waters. A secondary ship, slightly smaller but still formidable, was trailing just behind. The captain could see the deck where a familiar figure was calling out commanders, sticking a finger in the air as he did so. The captain looked between them both, dressed the same, siblings yet having lived such different lives. There he was, still, standing at the prow of his ship with the same confidence as those born and bred at sea. She smiled, just a fraction, and returned Her gaze to their own men. 

“Tomorrow we reach Lannisport!” The captain called out in a high, enrapturing voice. “We’ll move quickly to the keep, expect to face resistance, these land-lords love nothing more than to see Ironborn blood spilt.” There were a few cries of agreement and resentment. “But it shall be our blades that taste _their_ blood and then we’ll join the honourable men to see the scum scrubbed away!” 

Several men pumped their fists in the air and shouted so loud she wondered if they’d hear them from the docks. 

She brought out her eyeglass once more and searched the tops of the towers for those that dwelled within. She wondered if she’d see a flash of amber-red hair, or the silvery blonde of a Targaryen but the keep sat still as a grave. 

Asha Greyjoy looked to the ship beside her, she caught her brother’s eye. He nodded. She nodded back. 

She wandered if their father would be proud to see them now. Not that is mattered or that she cared. Balon Greyjoy was long dead, consumed by the sea at Pyke, never to be seen again. The same couldn’t be said for the Starks and Baratheons. Once upon a time, they’d joined forces to put down Balon’s rebellion, but now his children stood together and the wolves and stags stood apart. _He’d have us leave them to their business. He’d have them kill each other and_ _forus_ _to reap the spoils. But that is not the_ _Ironborn_ _way. Stannis Baratheon took me prisoner once before, but he made the mistake of letting me live. I will not be so merciful. He will pay the Iron price. I am coming._


	12. The Silk and the Steel

“Ships!” Lannister men swarmed around her as she beat down the track from the keep towards the docks. The old route, a smugglers route that led directly into the kitchens of Casterly Rock, had been boarded up against the  Baratheons , but she had it torn down and didn’t hesitate to mount a horse and ride towards the fleet that was pulling into the harbour, a sudden black tide on calm waters. 

Sansa knew they weren’t enemies. Baratheon men would fly the gold and black flag, yet these sails were intentionally left black and plain. Brienne tried to convince her to stay behind and let others greet the newcomers but she couldn’t be stopped. She’d spent a month at  Casterly Rock, waiting for news, for any word of salvation, but nothing had come.  _ I’d rather rejection than this contempt of silence.  _

The ships brought with them hope, in whatever form she found, and nothing could be done to hold her back from fighting to grasp hold of it. 

At the bottom of the passage, at the base of then hill, she emerged into Lannisport, still as a frost-covered lake, even with the sun beating down hard upon them. The ships were near docked, massive hulks that towered far above her with masts that touched the clouds. She could see streams of men onboard, carrying boxes, others shouting orders, and some swinging weapons at their sides. She urged her horse closer and, with guards at her sides, she scanned the newly populated harbour for any clue as to the identity of the new arrivals. 

It was then, sat upon her mount, that she remembered herself. Since Stannis had arrived, she’d made a vow to herself to be a Queen, and not the comfortable Sansa Stark who’s shoes she had slipped back into. There was a time for Sansa, and now was not it, yet she’d raced down the hill like an over-excited child receiving a gift.  _ Gods, I would expect this from Arya, but not from me.  _ She released a hand from the reins and smoothed down her hair that had tangled and splayed as they rode. There was no crown on her head to keep it all in place. She cursed under her breath but forced a smile upon her face. If their saviours expected a Queen, she still had to try her best to give them one. 

Luckily, the bar was not set so high. 

“Asha? What’re you doing here?”

The Queen of the Iron Islands was one of the last off the central command ship. She swaggered down the gangplank in her boiled leathers, shouting a few last commands while she surveyed the work her men were doing. When she met Sansa’s eye, she skipped over, a smug grin plastered over her weather-worn face. 

“Your Grace.” She bowed dramatically. “I’ve come to rescue your arse.” She swatted Sansa on the arm. 

“You received my letters?” She couldn’t help herself but smile at Asha’s arrival. There were few people whom she trusted as she did the Kraken Queen. She put her people first, but she had a sense of loyalty that went beyond the islands she called home. 

“Ah yes, I sent a reply but the birds on Pyke are, frankly, shit. Our father wasn’t much a fan of talking to the rest of the world”’ She turned back towards the ships. “How do you like ’em? Most were Euron’s, but I’ve made some improvements”’ There was genuine pride in her eyes, like a mother looking upon her child’s achievements. 

“They’re beasts, to be sure.” Sansa didn’t know much about ships, but she knew strength and speed when she saw it. “How many?”

“Ten ships.” Asha crossed her arms over her chest. “Not that you actually care about that. It’s the men you want. I managed to wrangle a thousand of Pyke’s best, and some of the crap ones but they’re just arrow fodder.”

“I thought there were no bad Ironborn. I thought battle was in your blood.” 

“On a deck, maybe. In a keep?” She shook her head. “They’re not like your castle-bred knights, Sansa. They were raised to reap but we don’t even do that anymore. Most haven’t picked up a weapon unless they went with me or Theon when we raided.” 

Sansa felt her gut wrench together and cast her eyes down, staring at their feet as if she’d found the solution in between her toes.  _ Does she know about Theon?  _ She hadn’t mentioned it in her letters, obviously, and she couldn’t think of any other way she’d have found out. She opened her mouth to say something but at once it was too dry to form the words. Her mind played the moment back, the deck swept from under them, the jump into the ice of the sea, Theon running to the wheel to steer them to safety. It all blurred into one in her mind until she had to wake, and find Stannis over her. When it had reached her that he’d never come back up, she didn’t say a word. Her face was steel and her mind more so. Men died.  Valor Morghulis . A Queen was expected to understand such things and be the anchor for everyone else’s suffering. Her silence was her only relief, her personal form of mourning. They said prayers for him on the first night on the road and she whispered her thanks. Theon had done more for her than he knew, and she had to leave him behind, at the bottom of the sea, without a place of rest. 

“Sansa?” 

Asha was in front of her, waving a hand around to get her attention. Theon stood beside her. She wasn’t surprised to see him. She’d wondered whether he’d come to see her as others that she knew had done beyond death. He wasn’t exactly family, but she didn’t think such trivialities would really stop him from speaking with her. He looked as he always had done, in his leathers like his sister, tanned from the sun, his hair windswept and slightly dewy from the salt. She wanted to reach out to him, but she knew it would seem strange to Asha. She met the woman’s eyes.

“Your brother-” She began, her gaze automatically flitting to him standing right there. “I’m so sorry.” Her heart was hammering in her chest, but she appeared to be the only one affected. 

“What?” Asha glanced to her side and, for a moment, laughed. “What’s wrong with him now?”

“He’s dead. Stannis overturned our ship and he tried to stop it but-” The tears were barely kept at bay, but she held them back. 

Now Asha laughed, a hearty sound that echoed across the harbour. Several of the  Ironborn turned to look at them. She clapped a hand on her brother’s shoulder. 

_ Wait- _

“I don’t who fed you that bullshit but unless I’m seeing spirits -” Asha’s voice faded away. Sansa’s eyes fell on Theon’s. From beneath her cloak, a hand edged closer, desperate to feel his warmth that would mean he had to be alive. She reached and, finding his hands bound in thick leather, she rested her hand gently on his cheek, feeling a whole tide wash over her at the undeniable heat pouring from his skin. 

Before she knew it, her arms were around his neck, and they were both nearly on the ground. She thought she called out his name but couldn’t be certain. She remembered squeezing him as tight as she could, without actually killing him, and trying her best to blink away the tears that threatened to stain her cheeks. On that account, she failed miserably. 

When they finally parted, she spluttered her apologies to the equally confused siblings, and wiped at her cheeks with the back of her sleeve. She laughed in spite of herself. 

“How?” Was all she could muster. 

He raised his brows. “What d’you mean?”

She looked between them both. “We thought you were dead! You never came out of the water so we..”’ She trailed off. It sounded stupid when she said aloud but, then again, they’d been so sure before. 

“You think he drowned?” Asha guffawed, doing nothing to hide her amusement. ‘That’s an honourable way to go – he wouldn’t deserve it.’ 

“When the ship went down, I swam, out of instinct I suppose. It was only when I reached the  beach I realised I was alone. Then I saw men storming towards me and I knew I couldn’t stand around and wait for you. I thought you might be dead, so I stole a horse and rode to Moat Cailin.”

“Which you found taken by the Baratheons?” Men were beginning to pass them, following the Lannister guards up the smuggler’s path. 

“Aye. I thought they’d taken the whole North. I could’ve passed through, but I didn’t know what I’d face on the other side. So, I headed to the west coast, got myself a ship and sailed the only place I knew Stannis’ wouldn’t bother attacking.” 

“What he means to say, is that he went back to Pyke because it’s such a shithole.” Asha chimed in with a flash of a grin. 

“That’s where I found my sister and-”

Sansa could gather the rest. Asha told him about the letters, told him they’d survived, and the Greyjoys chose to sail South to  Lannisport . She released a pent-up breath and nodded her head. 

“So, who  else’ve you got here then?” Asha smacked her hands together. Sansa turned around and began to lead them back up the cliff-face towards shelter. There was still a chance they might be set upon by Stannis’ raiders. She kept her eyes ahead. 

“No one. No one else answered the call.”

As they walked, between her many thanks and jubilations to see her Hand returned to her, Sansa explained their journey westwards. She told them about Arya and Gendry, then about meeting Tyrion and Daenerys at the Rock and the arrival of Robin Arryn and Roslin Tully. 

“A family affair, eh?” Asha said. “I feel like we’re intruding.”

“Gods no.” They’s reached the top of the hill, and, a little flushed from the ascent, Sansa let them through into the kitchen door and into the safety of their prison. “You might just have saved us all.” 

Theon followed through and dropped his head. “I hope so.”

Everyday brought with it a little change, a little news. But nothing ever  _ really  _ changed.  Casterly Rock continued in its constant cycle of rise and fall, eat and sleep, pray and cry. Dreams were the only respite. In dreams, those holed up inside could shed the stone shackles and taste the sweet nectar of brief freedom, however fleeting it was.

In the day, ghosts walked the halls. Those spirits went about their business as if driven to do so by an unknown hand, not by any kind of choice. Eyes sat deep in dark sockets, pale faces stared through windows and voices, like rasps, hung in the air. If a siege lasts long enough, castle walls become more than iron bars, the keep itself becomes an eternal tomb when men and women alike must choose life which means surrender, or death. 

There was at least something Tyrion Lannister could look forward, and it wasn’t the day Stannis Baratheon would finally smash through his gates; though he often wondered if he did long for it all to be over. He’d etched a single day upon his brain, and held it there until it came. The night before he made preparations and woke with a fresh feeling, as if the armies at his gate were nothing but a field of shrubs and trees. 

He awoke earlier than usual and with a strange, almost vibrating, energy. It was a wonder, he thought, that his own mind, so deprived of anything of interest, would rise in such anticipation for something entirely separate from himself. 

He deprived himself of languishing away the early hours and slipped from underneath the furs, dressing himself in clothes already left out and combing through the tangle of hair on his head with his fingers. 

_ I look old.  _ He frowned and lines formed deep in his forehead that only further proved his point.  _ Am I not old?  _ He looked past his beard, overgrown and unkempt, as well as the early wrinkles, and searched his eyes. Even his father, despite his age, had always had such youthful eyes. They dripped in wisdom but also the quickness and sharpness of wit. Tyrion wandered what others saw in his own eyes. Were the bright and active, or dull and past their best. He squeezed them shut and refused to open them again until he was out of sight of the cursed looking glass. 

He left quietly, watching his steps on the ageing wooden boards as he shut the door gently behind him and walked, light-footed, down the hall. 

In ten minutes, he was back, and, behind him, a grumbling Bronn pushed in an upright figure, covered in a satin black cloth that swept against the floor. He could’ve had any servant bring it in but something about seeing the old sellsword curse and grimace brought him more joy than he’d care to admit. 

The noise roused Sansa. With a stretch, she lifted herself from her pillows and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She did not see the eyes on her at first, but soon, blinking, she found herself struck still by her onlookers. 

“Bronn?” She yawned. Her eyes were drawn to the tall cover between them both. 

Tyrion coughed. 

“Oh right. Happy name day, Sansa.” Bronn attempted a sincere smile which Sansa, somewhat apprehensively, returned. 

“Name day?” Now she looked towards Tyrion. “Is this your doing?”

“It  _ is  _ today, I’m sure.” He nodded his head in agreement with himself. 

She looked up and around as if trying to picture the passing of time. He could see it written across her features. ‘Has it really been a year?’ She giggled a little. 

“Twenty and two?” Bronn chuckled. “Aye, that’s a good one. When I was twenty and two, I found this big lass and told her it was my name day so she had to-”

_ “And  _ that’s all I needed from you.” Tyrion jumped forward, hurrying the sellsword out of the room before he turned their stomachs any more than usual. When the door was pushed softly shut, he turned back to Sansa, who was now sat in her shift on the edge of her bed. 

“How did you know?” She ran a hand through her hair. 

“That it was today? I always got you gifts in King’s Landing, didn’t I?”

“You were the only one who did.” 

He didn’t need to be reminded of that. Sansa’s name days passed without celebration or feast. When she reached ten and six, when most young noble women were presented at court, she was already married to a man she despised and plotting the death of her King. Still, he’d never failed to find her something sweet, and easily hidden away, to mark the occasion. He found her a new band for her wrist, or a bone china hand-mirror or fine fabrics fresh from Essos. 

“What is it?” She broke his train of thought and returned him back to where he stood. He instinctively turned to the direction in which she bobbed her head – the great figure that loomed over him. 

He smirked. “Come see for yourself.”

“It’s beautiful.”

Sansa ran her hand across the fabric. The dress itself was a light grey, like many of her gowns, but this one was interwoven with silver thread that she knew would catch the moonlight like diamonds. Blues and reds, the colours of her mother, chased around the hem of the skirt and up each sleeve. She followed one trail with her hands, the material soft but firm at her touch. It was expensive, she knew, but nothing compared to the rest of the gown. 

In front of her, beneath the cloth she’d dramatically cast aside, was a suit of armour. It wasn’t like that which Brienne wore – close enough to a man’s - this plate was tailored specifically with a woman’s frame in mind, and it sat perfectly atop the grey gown. The chest and abdomen were covered in unblemished steel, as were the tops of the shoulders and the bottom of the wrists. Tyrion took his turn with the flare and drew away the skirt where, disclosed beneath, a pair of woven leggings were protected by slim plate across the thighs. 

She had not seen something that had taken her breath completely away in a long time, but this was unlike anything she could have even imagined. It was gorgeous and practical in equal measures, and she was at a loss for words to express what she saw in front of her. 

“Try it on.” Tyrion simply smiled, watching her expression carefully. She nodded, still unable to speak, and let waiting handmaidens strip her and gown her once more before strapping the steel on. When it was all done, she moved her hips from side to side, testing the weight. With the skirt over the top, the plate underneath was completely concealed. It was not cumbersome, like armour usually was. When she’d worn Dacey Mormont’s, it had fit well enough and not got in her way, but the plate was never made for her. This fit like a second skin. She pushed her hair from her face and lost a few minutes staring at herself in the mirror. 

“I wish I never had to wear it.” She sighed, running her hands across, first the metal bodice, then the rich fabric of the skirt. “But I’ve never seen anything like it.” 

“I won’t have you going off to fight any more in nothing but a dress, or in borrowed plate.” His eyes took all of her in. 

“Cersei wore something similar; I remember.” She mused aloud. “She liked to put bits of metal on her dresses, but she was never really protected.”

“My sweet sister had enough men around her to believe she would never need armour. She could walk those halls naked and never feel the breath of a blade.” 

She nodded. “The best armour is that which can’t be seen. Though,” she looked towards him, ‘the real thing certainly can’t hurt. Thank you.” 

He took hold of her hands and pressed them both briefly to his mouth. 

“When we’re at Winterfell, you won’t need the plate. You can strip it off and melt it down if you like.  But, when Stannis comes-”

“I won’t hesitate,” she smiled in comfort, “I know.” 

He reached into his pocket and produced a small package. Taking away the outer layers of old papers, he dropped a satin bag into her hands and gestured for her to open it. With tentative fingers, she peeled back each layer, revealing a small silver ring with  a emerald held snugly with its slim bands. She didn’t stop to admire it before she slipped it deftly on her finger, relieved to find it fitting perfectly. She held the gem to the morning light which reflected off of it in a thousand iridescent directions. 

“This is-” she began after a moment of inspection. 

“The stone you found in the counting rooms? Yes, I thought it was the perfect size. Lannister gems for a Lannister woman.” 

She scoffed. “You’re the one marrying a queen, remember? You can become a Stark if you like but I don’t think your ancestors would favour me taking their name.”

It had come out so quickly, that she barely noticed she said it. For the most part, she was saying the words absentmindedly, caught between her reflection in the mirror and the fresh stone in her hand. Vanity wasn’t a vice she commonly fell in to but she was so often disallowed from appreciating the beauty in the things she would once have only dreamt of. It was only in the ensuing silence that she realised what had slipped from her mouth. 

“Was that a proposal”’ After his initial silence subsided, he raised his brows and pressed down his lips to suppress a smile. “Because I don’t think it was one befitting a Queen.”

“I-no-I just meant-” Her mind had gone soft.  _ You are a Queen, Sansa, not a chattering buffoon. “ _ Did you think I was going to keep you at Winterfell as my whore?” She returned to the mirror, feeling heat blazing over her cheeks. 

“I don’t get to be your dirty secret? Creeping into the Queen’s chambers at night and escaping before dawn? You could entertain suitors but shower me in favours and steal glances at me from across the dais.” He kept looking towards her but she wouldn’t meet his eye. 

“Definitely not.” She shook her head. “The walls may be thick at Winterfell but there are plenty of ears behind them.”

He chuckled but she heard his tone shift, almost before he’d spoken. “Sansa?”

“Hm?” She turned towards him. His eyes were a shade of green she couldn’t describe and, at that moment, were all she could see. Out of habit, she extended her hand towards him to let him take it. 

“You’re certain this is what you want? Need I remind you that -”

“That I could have any man in Westeros?” With the slight ringing of metal, Sansa dropped down, sitting up on her knees. The armour was certainly new, and she couldn’t forget that she was wearing it, but she managed to find a comfortable position. “I have chosen you, Tyrion. Against all good sense and to the scorn of every Stark that has gone before me, I have made my decision.” 

“And woe the man who denies you that right.” She saw that softness in his eyes again. Usually his features hardened in the face of hungry Lords looking to tear him apart. He’d watch them, consider them and, with a look of glee, annihilate them. These eyes were different. He saved them for her. There was no deep thought behind them, no deliberation or fury. The green was of grasses and moss, not that of wildfire. 

She brought her free hand forward and pulled him closer, pressing her lips briefly against his, savouring their sweetness. 

A thumb reached forward and swiped at her cheek. A tear. She hadn’t even noticed it fall. 

Sansa stood back up and returned to the mirror, smoothing out the creases in her skirts. Her eyes fell to her vanity table where the morning light danced through the silver of her crown. She sat it upon her head. 

“In the  Godswood , at Winterfell.” She spoke with certainty. 

“Where your brother-”

She swallowed.  _ Where Jon died. Where Lady Melisandre died. Where I was certain I would die.  _

“Yes.”

She felt the cool red stone pressing against the chest, beneath her layers of plate, gown and shift. She didn’t even remember putting on.  _ I don’t remember taking if off either.  _ It had been the Red Priestess’, before the flames consumed her and left only her glowing ruby behind. Sansa had taken it from her remains and seen it put on a silver chain. She didn’t know why she’d done that, but the stone had been too good to leave behind, too enticing. She placed her hand on top of the steel breastplate, directly over where the ruby would be sitting. 

Nothing.

She’d half-expected to feel some heat radiating through her layers, but the steel was ice against her palm.  _ It is just a stone, you fool, what did you think would happen?  _

“There’s something else, though I’m not sure if it can be classed a gift.” Tyrion held out a letter, pressed with the green and gold seal Sansa recognised in a heartbeat.  _ Margaery.  _

“Why are you smiling?”

Tyrion had watched on in impatience while Sansa’s eyes flicked back and forth across the parchment in her hands. The Tyrell seal could only mean ill, he had guessed, yet when she reached the bottom – she smiled. 

_ Perhaps Margaery’s dead,  _ he thought to himself.  _ No, the great Rose of Highgarden wouldn’t be that easy to get around. Gold withers slowly, unlike flesh.  _

“She’s finally got herself together and is marching North.” The Queen in the North beamed towards him. He had half a mind that she was about to burst into laughter. She passed him the letter and he skimmed over it. She was right that Margaery had gathered the southern forces and was heading towards them, but he still couldn’t understand why Sansa took it so well. 

“Sansa, you know better than most how long it can take to bring a host across the country. Sieges may be long but there’s no way to know she’ll be here before Stannis breaks through.” He wrung his hands together, awaiting her disappointment, but it did not come. 

“Tyrion, I thought you were supposed to be the smartest man in all of Westeros?” She sighed. “I’m not glad because I think she’ll come to save us; I would rather she didn’t paint herself as the hero any  _ more  _ than her whole family already does. But it is not us who should be trembling, it is Stannis.” 

She strode towards the door and knocked softly, allowing a stream of maids to hurry in and begin the process of removing the plate from her gown. She continued as they did their work. 

“At White Harbour, he told me he wanted to pick the battleground himself. At King’s Landing and in the North, he didn’t have the advantage and, in his eyes, that was his undoing.” 

_ And not his own stupidity and dedication to an unhinged priestess.  _

“So,” she carried on, “the news that Margaery is on her way here, to fight him in these lands, won’t sit well with him, I can imagine. Attacking this Rock is purely to get at us, not for any real gains, but Margaery is the real prize he seeks. Defeat us, he’ll have the knowledge that he holds a group of noble Lords and Ladies, defeat Margaery, and he has Westeros.”

He furrowed his brow in thought. “You think he’d just leave?”

She shook her head. “Gods no. I’m sure he’d rather have his daughter’s head off than leave us. But, if he thinks the real fight is elsewhere, he might choose to have this one over quickly. He can’t break down our walls and so  far we haven’t sought terms.”

“He’ll be desperate.” Tyrion pictured the flustered Stannis, sitting in his tents, fist curled up and eyes blazing. 

“And desperate men are  _ remarkably stupid _ .” Sansa was unstrapped from her plate and the fine gown was being hung up for a suitable occasion. She slipped instead into a simple red and gold dress, another of his mother’s collection, and took a seat beside him on the edge of the bed. 

Something occurred to him. 

“I doubt Margaery’s sent him a  warning; how do you expect him to find out?”

She smiled again, like someone on the edge of revealing a secret. While he knew she had formed her plans just as she was being untied from her dress, it looked like she was unveiling the final piece in a puzzle she’d worked on for years. 

“We’ll tell him. Not so obviously though that he suspects, but we’ll tell him she’s coming, and let him reconsider his position.” 

Tyrion was brought back to a  cyvasse game he’d once played against Varys on their shared journey to  Meereen . The board had been Tyrion’s, and he knew he was just a few minutes away from taking it completely. 

“I’m going to play my dragon next,” the eunuch grinned, lazily dropping his finger on the piece in question. 

“Why would you tell me that?”

“I thought you should know – in the spirit of fairness. Sometimes the hand we play is seen by all.” 

Tyrion had only grimaced. He had had enough of Varys’ lessons to last a lifetime. He looked over the board and choose his piece. 

As soon as the onyx hit the marble board, the Lord cried out. 

“Death in two.”

Tyrion looked back over the pieces. The dragon was in no place –  _ no... _

Varys picked up his dragon and moved it just a single space. The move itself was useless but Tyrion’s King was trapped. There were no more moves he could play.  _ Death in two.  _

Now Tyrion did not sit across from the eunuch, put the same play was in motion and he saw Varys’ twinkle behind Sansa’s eyes. It was a gambit, especially if Stannis did not take their bait, but she knew the risks and, better yet, she knew Stannis.  _ Let us all pray he is the same fool Robert was. It’s that, or death.  _

The scheme was struck. From up high, they watched the young squire skip out of the side of  Casterly Rock, keeping low and out of the sight of any of the men on watch. He darted towards the camps in the near distance, letter held tightly in his arm, away to do what he was bid. When he fell out of view, the stepped back inside and waited for the newest seedling to take root. 

It only took two hours for the green sprouts to show. 

It was Brienne that came to her. Slightly out of breath and grinning from ear to ear, the knight found her Queen taking a walk and had to stop herself from seizing hold of her to depart her message. 

“A rider has come, bearing white flags!”

Sansa only nodded. It was as she had  expected. Inside, the same look of pure glee fought to break out onto her face, but she held it back. White flags meant peace, that she knew,  _ but Uncle  _ _ Edmure’s _ _ wedding feast had been held under the wide sweeping arm of peace, too.  _ She took a sharp breath and followed her knight to the assembly rooms where the lone embassy had been left, depraved of his escort who were held outside of the keep. 

When she entered, Tyrion and Daenerys were already assembled, watching the Baratheon man with careful, narrowed eyes. Others were there too;  Missandei and Ser Davos standing upright at the back of the room, Bronn leaning over to speak in Tyrion’s ear, Theon and Asha sat nearest the window, hands never far from their weapons. A seat had been left vacant for her, but she preferred to stand.  _ It is much easier to flee if one is already standing.  _

The man at the height of their combined interest, lacked any substance himself. He had the ears of a Florent, emphasised by his short, sandy hair, and bore the dirtied, pale face that life in a tent delivered. Stannis had sent a relation of his wife, though the Lady Selyse remained in hiding, probably one of the few men of Westeros in his service. 

“Lady Stark.” The envoy raised his eyes to meet hers. He did not stand at her arrival, nor bow no give her a title. Normally, she excused such mistakes, but she knew he deferred to an illegitimate king and had ‘forgotten’ her position as an act of malice. 

“You are addressing Sansa of House Stark, Queen of the North,” Brienne spoke up from behind her. The Florent boy almost shrugged and cast his eyes across the room. 

“Stannis Baratheon is the true King of Westeros. It is his by birth as the brother of the murdered Robert Baratheon. The pretender Margaery Tyrell has taken the Iron Throne with no claim and the pretender Sansa Stark has taken the whole North, without his permission.”

“Don’t forget the pretender Asha Greyjoy,” the Kraken called out, “who has taken the Iron Islands, without your ‘King’s’ permission.”

“ Casterly Rock has become a hive of traitorous leeches. The  Lannisters used to be a noble house, a house that respected their King, their rightful King.” Florent spat towards Tyrion. 

“ Lannisters have never cared about any Kings.” He retorted without a breath, “it was just the art of my father to make it look like we did. When you are done insulting us all, what terms do you bring?” 

The boy went to say something but he bit his tongue. Instead, he reached into the bag slung across his shoulder and brought out a short roll of parchment. He coughed to clear his throat. 

“These are the terms of Stannis of the House Baratheon, first of his name, King of Westeros.” He took a breath. “Stannis is the rightful ruler of this land and he beseeches the Lords and Ladies gathered against him here to leave and let the keep be, temporarily, taken under his command, as is his right. The lands and products of those lands will be forfeit.”

“What else?”

“No harm shall come to any of those living at  Casterly Rock or in the port. King Stannis will take those that have committed treason against him into confinement until terms of release are agreed. This will include an oath of allegiance and reparations.”

“And who are those who have committed treason against him?” Sansa pushed. The emissary looked up at once and scowled. 

“I was getting to that.” He turned the paper over and cleared his throat once more. “Those that shall be detained are-”

He proceeded to list the names of nearly everyone in the room. Notably absent were the  Greyjoys ,  Missandei , Robin Arryn and Roslin Tully. Sansa, however, had no doubt that the Baratheons would take them too, if found. 

“You are to submit yourself peacefully and you will expect the same treatment in return.” 

“Brilliant,” Bronn announced, “your Lord would have use surrender the keep, for what? A set of manacles? He must think he’s something fucking special.”

_ “Is  _ there anything in this for us?” Sansa attempted a smile. So far, the ‘terms’ had been pretty weak. 

“The King is being  _ generous _ ! For your loyalty you will have your lands and estates backs. For your loyalty he won’t harm a hair on anyone’s head. None of you are in any position to bargain here.” 

Now she did smile, genuinely. ‘Then why is it that you’re here? Have you considered that? You may not have negotiated before, but it tends to involve compromise, from  _ both  _ sides. Stannis knows that well enough too.’

‘I am here to give you a chance to live.’ 

“You are here because Stannis is scared. Deathly afraid, by your speed in reaching us. These terms, are impossible to agree to – no sane man would give himself to imprisonment so easily. He wants us to send him an alternative, and we will.”

She was glad she was standing. The Florent remained sitting the whole time, to avoid every sword being drawn on him, but his already slight frame made him almost comical in his position. She swept around the table to confront him properly. 

“Do you understand?”

“Y-you shall sign this-” He spluttered.  _ He cannot see that his King would be willing to compromise.  _

“I will not, and you will not seek to command me like I am some serving wench at your heel. Whether or not you consider me a Queen, I am still a Lady and  Wardeness and you, by your lack of name worthy of mention, should know better than to make demands of your betters.” She breathed to contain herself and dropped her voice. “I will have a legation sent back to your camps, with your men. You, however, will remain here. Your ‘King’ does not know exactly who resides here, and I will not let you go and tell him all.”

She turned around to the others and made her way to her seat. 

“I will go, your Grace.” It was Ser Davos who spoke up, rising slightly from his seat and resting his shortened hands on the table. “I know Stannis, I had his ear for many years, I know what it is that he would prefer to hear. And, don’t deny it, I am worth less to you than these others. I am no commander, nor great warrior or stateman. But I believe I can do this.”

She looked across at the Onion Knight, at the Lord who had joined them at King’s Landing with only the expectation of visiting the  Manderlys at White Harbour before returning to his wife and children. When he had joined them first, she was certain he looked younger. The days of war had aged him, greyed his hair and  sallowed his skin. On the  _ Young Wolf _ , he was spritely, a man acting his own age once again. Now, in that hall, he was just as sunken as before. The days of Stannis Baratheon had returned to him, as had the bags under his eyes and the slight tremor of his hand. She had not thought to look in on him during their days under siege. Ser Davos was strong, she knew, and she had supposed he had been holding up the same as the others.  _ He has seen more of Stannis Baratheon then all of  _ _ us, though _ _ , he knows what it is we face and knows what we should fear.  _

“Are you certain?” She knew there was nothing she could say to dissuade him and couldn’t think of any reason why it should not be him. Jon had taken an instant liking to the strange knight with the stranger story. The smuggler turned knight turned Hand turned Lord turned whatever else. 

“I am.”

She nodded.  _ Let us hope Stannis’ heart is not so black that he would not listen to the man he once regarded so highly. Let us hope he’s not precisely what I think he is.  _

As Ser Davos Seaworth rode off with a Baratheon escort, there was a palpable shift in the air. Word spread quickly on what had been done, on the strange man lodged with them and the Onion Knight that had gone away to make peace. After several weeks of nothing- of waiting and living, of sleeping and waking, of praying and waiting – it was strange to watch him fly away and to feel the change of the tides. 

For those holed up at  Casterly Rock, that change was one of hope. Figures watched from the balconies as the rider disappeared from view and those inside spoke in excited, hushed voices, longing to return to their usual lives. 

In the camps not a league away, the change for Stannis Baratheon was not so appealing. He had enjoyed drawing out the siege on  Casterly Rock. Every day they made some small bit of progress and he could rest knowing that they were a step closer to victory. The news of Margaery Tyrell’s movement cast his peace aside and forced everyone to make decisions and take action. He had to concentrate his thoughts and rouse the camps like some great beast that had slumbered a whole winter. He had awaited the day the Tyrell’s would face him, but this was not an ideal time. He looked over his maps countless time with cool resilience. Change brought opportunity, even it was not as he had planned. 

For the others, spread out across Westeros, the change in the air went unnoticed. They were converging on a single point, but did not know they did not move alone. In the North, Arya Stark sat proudly upon her horse, the Northern host at her back. Her days were full of fretting. The Lords had taken too long to mobilise, their forces weren’t as strong as she had expected. 

Deep in the South, Margaery Tyrell felt the same concerns. The men had been slow to gather and now moved lazily Northwards. They hadn’t been called to arms in so long, and the lasting peace had seemed so secure, that they were unprepared to fight again. When she’d ridden with Sansa with the  Dornish , such things had come easy, but now the journey felt heavier, like she was hauling every cart herself. 

Gendry Baratheon did not know he was travelling parallel with a second army. All he knew was the distance ahead of him. They’d left the Storm Lands as soon as the men were ready and had ridden hard every day since. Stannis Baratheon was at  Casterly Rock, so that was where he had to be. It did not feel unnatural to ride against his own Uncle; Stannis was nothing to him and would’ve spat on him if they’d ever met in his infancy. For boys cast aside by their fathers, family was made, not inherent by birth. He pushed his men as hard as they would take, and counted down the leagues till they would reach the great rock and finally put Stannis in the ground. 

When Sansa Stark looked out that evening, hours after Davos had ridden away, she did not know what was coming. She knew all that she could see - the  Baratheons in their camps, and the Lannister and Greyjoy men within the walls behind her. She wished to feel the same sense of hope as the others could, but something darker lingered overhead. She had no reason to doubt that Davos could influence his old King, but she knew he would fail. Even now, she could feel something approaching like the distant sound of pounding hooves before a battle. The waves smacked against the cliff-edge, the air was heavy with moisture and it was unusually warm. She could taste the energy on her tongue.

A storm was coming – something whispered in her ear. 

“Brace yourself.”


	13. The Oak Tree

Ser Davos Seaworth was a man of simplicity. He spent most of his time with his wife and children and took a few hours to himself every day to fish, and let the sea air remind him of, not necessarily better, days gone by. He handled trouble well, he supposed. If a ship came into difficulty, panicking meant an icy, wet death. There were steps to take, sails to shift and men to command. Even the direst situation had a plan, a set of tasks he could undertake to give himself hope and to keep his mind off the alternative. 

That was what he considered as he rode the empty land that separated the looming Rock from the rows of ever busy Baratheon tents. The camp was arranged in neat lines, like crops, and the men milled around, as men bored in a siege often did. At the edge of the camp, a heavily armed man took hold of his reins and Davos knew to swing his leg from his mount, not the easiest task, and follow his escort to the central tent. The command tent, black with gold trimming, was the largest by far, and a constant stream of men and servants ducked in and out with the same unsettled expression. The light was already fading and a chill settled in the air; the Onion Knight rubbed his already gloved hands together and grumbled beneath his breath. 

The flap of the tent was pulled aside for him. With a nod of thanks, he entered. Darkness consumed him inside. 

It took him several moments for his eyes to adjust.  _ I know some of my faculties are failing me, but I didn’t think I was this blind.  _ Eventually, the brightness of the candles dotted sparsely across the space became apparent and he cast an eye around. For a second, he was back in Dragonstone, standing in the grey halls or looking across the great stone table, pondering the map of Westeros with the sullen Stannis. 

He wasn’t at Dragonstone, yet there was Stannis, pale hands outstretched on a table, light blue eyes bright and quick as always. They flicked up. 

“Ser Davos-” He straightened up and looked around the room. Others, faces from Westeros and Essos both, were huddled around the edges. “Leave us.” 

When the last had departed, Davos released a breath and met the Baratheon’s eye. 

“Lord Stannis.” He cleared his throat, bowing his head at once. 

_ “King  _ Stannis,” he corrected with a twitch of his lips. 

“Hm? Oh yes, well-” now Davos straightened himself and reached into his bag for the parchment he had been entrusted with. “The Queen Sansa Stark and Lord Lannister have sent this, a response to the terms you sent.”

Frown never ceasing, Stannis eagerly swiped at the papers and cast his eyes quickly over them. When he was finished, he set the paper down and did not look at it again. 

“You’re Sansa Stark’s messenger boy now?” He spoke, the familiar touch of ice in his voice. 

“I volunteered, I thought we might be able to-”

“To make a deal? You think because you served me before that I’d - what – take pity on you and give your Queen a free path back to her armies?”

_ If he was a common man he would’ve spat.  _

“I told you I am not her man. I simply thought you could be more fair, if you knew who you were speaking to.” 

_ “Fairer _ , not ‘more fair’.” Stannis hissed. The greying man shook his head. “What do you have for me then? How are their numbers, their defences?”

“I don’t think I understand m’lord.”  _ Does he want me to be his spy? _

“What is there not to understand? We made an agreement in White  Harbour, you gave your word that you’d do as I asked. Now I’m asking.” He fell into his seat and curled a hand into a fist. 

_ He is insane.  _

“I told you I wouldn’t. They are good people in there – they don’t deserve to be  slaughterd for-”

“For what? For the rightful King of Westeros?” He clenched his jaw. “Now, tell what I need to know.”

When the  _ Young Wolf _ had been cleaved in two, Davos had tasted salt water in his lungs and wandered if that would be the end of him. The lurch of the deck had uncentred his balance and his leg had bent and fell heavily beneath him. He jumped, as all the others had, but with the searing pain in his ankle and the sudden shock of frigid water, he waited for the end that every smuggler expects. 

It didn’t come. 

Hands swept around him and hauled his water-logged body to the shore. He fell upon the sand, spluttering up the cursed water and dragging air in his chest. It wasn’t long before they picked him up, still heaving, and took him with the rest of them towards the harbour. 

Like fresh slaves their company was led, chained and bound, towards the New Castle, and deposited in the cells below the keep. 

When the barred door was shut heavy upon them, searching hands raked through the darkness for others to cling onto. They reminded  each other of their names, assured them, checked for injuries and tried every method of escape. When they realised neither the Queen or her hand were among their numbers, they fell into an uneasy silence. It was ruptured only by the sound of locks clicking hours later. 

That was when he walked in – Stannis Baratheon – very much alive. He stepped between them, casting torchlight to every face, until he’d reached Ser Davos. When those blue eyes had found him in the bleak cell, they changed, twinkling almost. Words were murmured, and, before he could protest, new arms seized him and forced him from the room. 

He was taken to a room upstairs, a smaller, furnished and well-lit room, where the door was locked but no guards watched over him. He hadn’t expected to be alone. Just before he’d turned out of the cells, he heard the sound of struggle come from behind him and caught, in a flicker of firelight, a glimpse of Gendry also hauled from his cell. Yet, the smith boy had not been brought with him. They had turned off in a different direction and he’d been left to his own devices. 

“Davos.” His name sounded strange in that voice. He’d thought he’d never hear it again. Stannis Baratheon had entered the room and stood, hands behind his back, before him. 

“S-Stannis.” He’d seen him in the cells, for a moment, but now he was sure of it. He wasn’t a walking corpse like the dead had been, and he looked too real to be some mirage.  _ Perhaps I drowned in those waters and this is some death dream I shall never wake from.  _ It certainly didn’t feel like it. “I thought you were dead.”

“I’m not.” He replied quickly, as if already bored of telling that story. 

“How?”

Stannis sighed, and began. 

When the tale was told, Davos watched his old master carefully. He was a changed man, he could see, but still the same Lord he’d travelled with what felt like a lifetime ago. 

“You run with Sansa Stark now?”

Davos shook his head and opened his palms. “I was travelling with her, coming to White Harbour to see the  Manderlys and get  Marya something nice as well.”

The black stag swallowed. “Is she well?”

“Aye.”

“And your sons?”

_ What is left of them, you mean?  _

“Aye, them too.”

Stannis nodded, looking glad to be done with the pleasantries. “Then I think you can be forgiven, if this  _ is  _ just chance. But I need something from you, in return.”

“No.”

He’d misjudged the size of the tent.  Its walls felt closer than ever. 

“I let you live despite your  _ inconsistencies _ , you cannot say now that you have taken  _ their  _ side, after all of this?”

Davos looked towards the papers, forgotten on the table. He doubted they would be arranging terms that evening. 

“I’ve taken nobody’s side. All I want is to get back to my wife and children but I couldn’t leave the others in this state. Come on, Stannis, can’t we just talk about what Queen Sansa has-”

‘Lady Stark!’ His voice cut through the air and Davos inhaled sharply. “Sansa Stark is Lady of Winterfell, and a traitor to the crown. She should be nothing more than a head on a stick. Do not come in here and call her  _ that _ .” 

Davos felt a flush creep up his neck. “She was crowned by her people, and she’s been happy where she is for years. Can’t you just leave her be?”

“You stand with her, over me?” His voiced dropped, low and careful. 

“I don’t stand for anyone!” He raised up his hands. “But there hasn’t been war for years now. Her people are happy. I quite like the prospect of peace.”

_ Whilst all you want is war.  _

“Guards!” His voice rang out like a bell and the tent was populated in an instant. Two men, tall and armoured, seized hold of each of his arms and lifted him legs slightly from the ground. Ser Davos made no attempt to fight them, he knew the look in Stannis’ eye. He’d watched him send men away countless times and when his mind was made up, there was no cooling his temper. 

He kept his head up, meeting the glacial pools of the Baratheon Lord’s eyes. 

“I thought you were dead. I mourned for you. I mourned for Shireen. I-”

“Keep my daughter’s name out of your filthy mouth, smuggler. Take him away.” Stannis held up a hand and turned away as the guards tightened their grip and dragged the knight backwards out of the door. He did not kick or flail. He never dropped his gaze. 

_ I mourned for you.  _

Ser Davos had been gone a day. There was no word from the camps below. The glimpse of hope that had blossomed as the Onion Knight disappeared from view was stretched with every passing hour until it had all but dropped away completely. Men jumped at every noise that echoed across the fields up to the keep on the Rock, but nothing changed, the army sat still. 

_ Like wolves ready to pounce.  _ Sansa thought to herself. She was walking the ramparts, making her checks on the few men standing in defence. As she walked, she found herself fiddling with the green stone slipped on her finger. She stopped as soon as she noticed yet, minutes later, she was doing it once more. She’d walked away around the top of  Casterly Rock at least three times. If she wasn’t on her feet, her mind began to wander and when it wandered, she wanted to lock herself away and never show her face again. At least she didn’t walk alone. 

“You have hot oil, and a good supply of arrows?” Robb Stark marched alongside her, decked out in his full suit of plate and mail emblazoned with the  direwolf sigil . His eyes, as blue as hers, darted around, inspecting every man. 

“The  Greyjoys brought enough spears and arrows to last us. The swords are sparse but we’ll divide them up to those that don’t have their own.” 

“And the common folk?”

“Locked away already with guards of their own. They know the way to the smuggler’s passage out to the harbour but they’ll only use it if all else fails.” 

“Which it won’t.” Her brother assured. 

“It won’t.” 

“Sansa?” A voice called out from ahead of them, two auburn heads looked up at once. “Who are you talking to?”

“Hmm? Oh I-” she looked to her side, Robb only smirked and she resisted the urge to strike out. “No one.”

Tyrion Lannister regarded her with a quirk of the head but seemed to forget it quickly. “I’ve been looking for you, where have you been?” 

Sansa gestured lazily with her hand. “Walking.” 

“You don’t think Ser Davos will be bringing good news.” It wasn’t a question; he knew the answer.

“Do you?” She raised an eyebrow. With Robb gone, they began to walk.

He shook his head. “Stannis doesn’t know the meaning of the word compromise. Neither did his brothers.” 

“But we’d be wrong not to send Davos in.” She sighed. She’d placed herself in the world of politics for long enough to know that this was how these men liked to appear. They put on their shows of good faith and justice, only so they weren’t slandered later for slaughtering their enemy. Stannis knew his time was quickening, so he made an effort to appear conciliary, even if it was just veil covering the malice beneath. “I suppose I have to be glad for the dress you gave me.”

He joined her smiling. “I didn’t know you’d need it  _ so  _ soon. You shouldn’t have to fight at all.” 

“That would be a terrible waste of fine fabric. Dresses like that are meant to be worn, meant to be seen.” 

They had reached the end of the battlements and were heading up the spiral staircase of one of the principle towers. At the top, the wind struck them and Sansa thought she’d opened the door to Winterfell. 

“You don’t have to fight.” Tyrion began after a period of silence. 

“Because I’m a weak-willed woman?” She spoke into the empty air. 

“Because you’re not a warrior. Queens have men to fight for them for a reason.”

She turned on him. “My brother fought. Daenerys rides her dragons. Why can’t I? I may not have been castle-trained, nor am I some expert swordsmith, but I’ve been at battle before. I’ve killed men before. I’ve seen enough death for a lifetime.” She sighed. ‘Anyway, we need every body we have.” 

“So, you want to fight to prove a point? In my experience that’s not the best reason to risk your life.”

She scowled. “I’m doing it because it’s  _ right _ . He boils my blood, Tyrion, I can’t stand and watch others fall on swords for the sake of  _ Stannis Baratheon _ .”

Tyrion opened his mouth to say something, but she wasn’t done. 

“I have fought since King’s Landing against men like him, since I was a child. I honestly thought when I rode away after defeating Cersei, that it was the end. But men like him will  _ never  _ cease. One man tells them once that they deserve something and they will lay waste to everything ahead of them to get at it. He has no right! No right to come here and tear it all apart because of the blood that runs through his veins. If I have to use my knife one more time, let it be for honour, and justice, and what is fucking right.” 

He dropped his gaze and spoke softly. “You’d die for Stannis Baratheon.”

“I’ll die for the same reason my father did. They called him a fool for challenging Joffrey but he knew what was happening wasn’t  _ right _ . If he means to take my head? Let them take it, I’d rather it was done than I was left to live in his world.” She had not known how accepting she was of her uncertain future. As she said the words, however, she knew she meant them. Death had never been a prospect she’d feared. At times she’d longed for its swift, decisive hands to take her away from the unending sentence she served. The dead followed her around, whispered in her ear and kept her sane,  _ and one day, I hope to join them.  _ Yet, something tugged her down to the ground. While she accepted death, she fought for life. The crown resting on her temples weighed her down, but her heart was bound by a force much more powerful. 

As she looked across at Tyrion, the man she had sworn herself to, she watched him contemplate her words, her death. Each emotion crossed his downcast eyes, one by one, until he settled on his favourite, and it wasn’t what she had expected.  _ Anger. _

“I won’t get in your way anymore, if you are so settled on these being your final hours.” He turned to walk away, but her spurt of laughter kept him in place. 

“Tyrion, don’t be a fool.”

“Is that what I am? A fool?” He threw up his hands. “You stand here with your poetry and grand designs, talking about dying as if that means nothing to you.”

“That’s not what I meant. I won’t be naïve though. I have to come to terms with the fact that when Stannis attacks, which he will, I may not live to see him defeated.”

“Gods, do you hear yourself”’ He tightened his hand in a fist and pressed it against his forehead. “You Stark’s and your bloody obsession with sacrificing yourself for absolutely fucking nothing. You’d rather run into fire than wait and let it burn. My brother saved you last time,  _ your Grace _ , when you decided to take on Walder Frey on your own, but there won’t always be someone there to rescue you.”

Her laughter caught in her throat and her smile faded. “It’s not my choice to make.”

“Of course it fucking is! Everyone has a choice, Sansa.”

“I am their Queen-”

He seized her by the waist. “No, you’re not. Not here at least. You’re Sansa Stark – not some great hero or warrior.” He met her eyes, pleading. “And if your people care so much about you, they’d rather have you alive than dead.  _ I’d  _ rather have you alive than dead.” 

“I will not my disgrace myself.” Her voice faltered. 

He stepped away, closing his eyes and dropping his hands. “I wouldn’t care if you did.” 

_ I wish you did.  _

They fell into an uncomfortable silence, neither wanting to be the first to break it. Sansa almost felt the need to hold her breath as well as her tongue. After minutes of contemplation in the fresh breeze, she turned on her heel and made her way back inside. 

“Walk with me?” She called behind her. With a nod, Tyrion was at her side and she led him back down the tower and onto the ramparts. 

She’d walked them so many times, just that morning, that she knew the way they twisted and turned by heart.  Casterly Rock wasn’t square and simple like Winterfell- as a keep it was ever expanding, new sections built at sometimes strange and unfathomable angles that kept anyone walking the walls sharp or else one misstep would cause a plummet to the rocks below. With a confident stride, she followed the winding path, leaving the men guarding the wall behind, until they reached a lesser trafficked section, a square of wall that overlooked one of the gardens. She’d walked the gardens too, plenty of times, but to see them from above was a different experience They were shaped in a perfect spiral of plant-beds of varying colours that swirled towards the centre where new leaves burst out, fluttering on the wind. 

“What?” When she turned on him, Tyrion raised his brows then chanced a glance at the gardens below. He looked back at her. “Sansa?”

“I’ve never seen anyone else in these gardens.” She smiled faintly, her eyes fixed on the centre.

“Well, they’re not the main gardens. My father hated this one, said it didn’t fit at in the Westerlands.” 

“But he couldn’t destroy it either. It’s sacred. Like the one in King’s Landing. There’s no one there to use it, but it sits there nonetheless, a beacon of the Gods.”

Sansa’s eyes were on the heart tree at the centre, though she could only see its mass of leaves. In the North, it would be a  weirwood with its red leaves and white, spiny branches. Here it was simply an oak, but just as wide and sprawling as the one at Winterfell and with the carved face bleeding with sap that Sansa would often trace with her fingers. 

“What do they say to you, the Gods?” Tyrion almost chuckled. His own faith in any kind of God was thin. She didn’t blame him. 

“Fuck all.” She breathed. “But they have their uses.”

“Like what?” 

“Swearing in front of.” She replied quickly. When he scrunched his nose in confusion, she explained. “You can’t lie in front of a heart  tree, they say the Gods would know. That is why Northerners marry in Godswoods, so that the oaths they make to love and cherish and such cannot be broken.” 

“I suppose men break those oaths all the time, though?”

She sighed. “And women too. But it’s tradition. Stand before the tree, say a few words and – that's it.”

“Quite different from Southern weddings then?”

“I prefer the Northern way. It’s simple. Honest.” She gripped the stone wall. “There’s still a feast afterwards though, and plenty of ale.”

“Well, how could I complain? I don’t think I could stand another-”

“I might not make it to Winterfell.” She cut him off, turning suddenly and dropping to her knees to meet his eyes. “Or you might not, or neither of us. I made a mistake. I don’t admit it often but I did and I have regretted it every day since. I wish to right it as soon as possible, in case the only part of me that gets home is my bones.”

He over-exaggerated a shiver. “Gods, you know I’ve never thought about where they’d put my bones. I’d never forgive the man who let me rot here forever.” 

Sansa cupped his cheek. “If we were married, you would have a place beside me, in life and death.”

“You mean those crypts? Your brother told me they were only meant for Starks.” 

“Well,’ she grinned, ‘why should I care what a lot of dusty corpses think. I brought the North its independence, I think I deserve some allowances.”

A figure in the distance was watching them. Sansa’s eyes flicked over in their direction for half a second, then returned to their place. She recognised the frame of her mother against the grey morning sky. 

_ She’s not berating me, so I can’t be making a mistake. Not this time.  _

“There’s nothing stopping us. We could marry today, if you’d like?” She watched him in earnest. Still, the Lady Catelyn made no move to intervene. 

“Sansa-”

“Say yes.” She reached for his hand and squeezed it. His eyes were wide and unblinking. 

“Y-you don’t want the feasts and bells and celebrations?” 

“If we make it to Winterfell, we can ring every bell and feast for days. But those things are for the Queen of the North. As you said, here I am just Sansa Stark.” She leant in and felt his lips curl into a smile beneath her own. When she pulled away, his green eyes burned into her. 

“You’re certain?” 

She giggled as his  severity . 

“More than ever.” 

“Well then,” he clasped her hand and brought it to his lips, leaving a kiss on every trembling finger, “Stannis will just have to wait.”

She brought herself back to her feet and cast her eyes over the expansive oak before them. In truth, she was looking at the figure across the way, still standing as resolute as a statue. Sansa wasn’t sure, but for a moment, she could’ve sworn her mother had nodded, just before she disappeared into the crisp air. Tears welled in her eyes. 

She was back at Winterfell, her mother combing through the length of her hair, telling her all about the conversations that had been held between the King Robert and Ned. Sansa had nearly jumped to the ceiling when she was told she would be marrying the prince, that she’d be Queen one day. She was so overjoyed; she couldn’t understand the misgiving in her mother’s eyes and the apprehension in her voice. What reason could she have to frown, she had wondered afterwards, who wouldn’t dream of their daughter ruling the Kingdoms? 

She was at  Casterly Rock once more, Tyrion by her side, and a set of tears leaving their slick trails upon her cheeks. She did not bother to wipe them away. For a fleeting second her mother’s warmth had returned – a warmth Sansa couldn’t even remember feeling when she was alive. 

_ I have her blessing, that is all I could ever ask for.  _

She sniffed. “I’ll go to my rooms and get changed; you probably should do the same.”

Tyrion feigned offence. “What’s wrong with my clothes?” He looked down upon himself. 

“Nothing,” she smirked, “but I have learnt there’s a lot more to clothing that its fabric and colour. And at a wedding too? What you wear could change history.” 

With a short laugh, she left him there, continuing around the edge of the wall. When she reached the  spot Catelyn Stark had been standing a moment ago, she stopped and looked across. A hand rested gently on her shoulder. She did not look, but she knew who it belonged to. They leant in and whispered. 

“Brace yourself.”

It was not her mother’s voice. 

“This is all – sudden.” Theon Greyjoy stood ahead of her, in his usual dress and slightly unkempt hair. She reached up and patted it down, suddenly aware of the gravity of the situation. 

“Hmm.” Her stomach was twisting in knots and she wasn’t sure if opening her mouth to speak was the best choice. Her hands shook as she pressed down her already immaculate skirts, and as they checked her hair hadn’t moved since she’d last check two minutes ago. Her days on the road had left her quick to dress, and though it had taken more hands than she possessed to get her into the finer gown, compared to the  Dornish garb she had worn before. Then, she was dressed and ready before she could think and force herself to stop. 

When she did, she was staring into the long mirror of her room, of Tywin and Joanna’s room, her eyes were on her head. The maid who’d carefully, but with nimble and learned fingers, braided her hair in a crown around her head, hand placed her actual silver crown on top, the finishing piece. Sansa reached up and took it off.  _ Sansa Stark doesn’t need a crown.  _

Instead, she adorned herself with the green jewel at her hand and the red around her neck. Before she forgot, she fetched the silver  direwolf pin from the dress she’d worn that morning and fixed it on her cloak. It wasn’t exactly was a maiden cloak was supposed to be, it was grey instead of white, yet she wasn’t a maiden anymore, so it was almost fitting. 

After fixing the broach to the nape of her neck, she looked up at herself in the mirror, and breathed out a shaky breath. Her fingers found their way to the scarred side of her face. She traced along the pale  scars, the kiss of the flames felt so many years ago. As a child she’d imagined her wedding more times than she could count. She was dressed in the finest cloth of gold, her hair twisted with silver and her face fresh and still shining with the zest of youth. She cast a final look over herself.  _ I prefer it this way.  _

She’d send a squire to fetch Theon and found him waiting her in the Lord’s solar, leaning on the heavy oak desk. She explained it all to him and, with a grin, he took her arm and led her towards the gardens. 

Now they stood before the wide arched doorway, where a slight chatter of voices carried on the afternoon air. 

“I’m sorry it couldn’t be your father.” He took her hand and squeezed it gently.  _ Don’t worry Theon, he’s here.  _ She squeezed back and set herself forward. 

“Here we are.” He chuckled. 

“In the middle of a war.” She returned, her mind travelling down her skirts to the Valyrian steel dagger hidden away neatly in its folds. 

The sound within the gardens grew. Tyrion had invited people, more than just Jaime, as she had expected.  _ Typical Lannister, can’t refuse the chance to show off.  _

She pressed her lips together to suppress the smile and nodded. Theon took her arm firmly and, together, they walked the spiral track with the beckoning arms of the oak at the centre. 

Tyrion Lannister darted from foot to foot on the spot. He stood before the great heart tree, as expected, but with eager eyes watching him, he had a sudden desire to be anywhere else but.  _ Why did I tell any of them?  _ It would’ve been simpler for them all if he let his and Sansa’s companions go about their days without knowledge of the words being shared in the gardens. Then again, he had to tell his brother. And Jaime had to tell Brienne and Bronn. Brienne was fond of Missandei and that could only lead to a whisper in Daenerys’ ear. With Theon walking with Sansa, his sister was sure to know as well. Men and women in a siege could keep few secrets from one another.  _ It is a miracle it is only them here. _

He heard footsteps first- the sound of stones crunching softly beneath boots. He was glad when focus turned away from him as heads flipped around. He didn’t get to languish in that feeling for long. 

When she turned around the corner, his eyes were stuck, unable to see anything but her advancing form. The gown he’d had made for her, without its additional plate, sat perfectly upon her frame and in the early evening, the silver thread caught the retreating sun and made her whole-body glow. Her hair, a rich auburn, was interlaced with tiny gems but nothing, not her hair or dress or the stone at her hand could shine brighter than the blue of her eyes. They had not broken from him as she moved closer- she paid no attention to the others watching her, or to Theon who escorted her, beaming. Her lips curled into a smile, a knowing look that he returned with a quick wink. 

The two of them stopped a step away and the entire glade held their breath. 

_ Fuck!  _

His mouth was dryer than the plains of Dorne and as rough and coarse as their fields of sand. His mind, likewise, felt just as empty. The words he’d had Asha Greyjoy beat into his head had escaped him. For one of the few times in his life, Tyrion Lannister had nothing to say. 

“Who comes before the Old Gods this evening?” Something whispered in his ear, carried on a sudden gust of wind. His head turned sharply to the side but there was no one there. It wasn’t a voice he recognised either. After a moment of stitching his eyebrows together in sudden concentration, he remembered himself and cleared his throat. 

“Who comes before the Old Gods this evening?”

Theon took a small step forward. “Sansa of House Stark, come to wed. A woman grown, true and noble, the Queen of the North and Lady of Winterfell. She comes to beg the blessings of the Gods.” 

Tyrion returned his gaze to Sansa, who held fast onto her father’s ward. After a moment, Theon continued. 

“Who comes to claim her?” 

Now the words returned to him and he spoke up quickly. 

“Tyrion of House Lannister. Lord of  Casterly Rock.”  _ My repertoire sounds much less impressive. “ _ Who gives her?”

“Theon of House Greyjoy, the Queen’s Hand and her father’s ward.” 

_ To think they had thought him dead just weeks ago.  _ Now Sansa looked towards her almost brother as if they’d never been parted. Before it was his turn to speak again, Sansa pressed a swift kiss to Theon’s cheek. The Prince of Pyke released her arm and Sansa took her place beside Tyrion, now both before the tree, the Gods bearing the ultimate witness. 

“Your Grace, do you take this man?”

Tyrion looked up.  _ Do you? _

“I take this man.” 

As she’d once done in the Sept of Baelor, Sansa dropped down to her knees, allowing him to skirt around and unclasp the pin holding her cloak together. His brother appeared at his side and handed him a second, one of deep reds and golds, their mother’s. With a silent nod to Jaime, he returned to his bride and, replacing the  direwolf , he attached the new cloak around her neck, as slender and long as it was, and faced her once more. 

“It should’ve been you wearing the cloak.” She spoke only to him. 

He pursed his lips in consideration. “It really should’ve.” 

He reached a hand out and laid it gently on her cheek, running his thumb against the highest point of bone. Then, as if his remaining family and friends were not a yard away, Tyrion Lannister kissed his wife softly, like a caress. 

When he opened his eyes, he expected it all to disappear.  _ This is not mine. I’m still trapped under my father’s boot and lost forever in Jaime’s shadow.  _ He’d open them and find Cersei’s mocking face, ready to rake her claws across his arm then deny it immediately. He’d shuffle away and find comfort in a woman’s arms whose face he couldn’t remember, whose name didn’t last long enough to stick. That was the life Tyrion Lannister was set to live. That would be his lot. 

“Tyrion-” 

“Well done, you little shit.” It was Bronn who approached them first to clap him on the back. He blinked himself back into the present, where she was definitely in front of him, knees dug into the dirt and head noticeably free of its crown. The knight above turned to Sansa. “Your Grace.”

“Prick.” She matched his tone perfectly and smiled, radiantly up towards him. 

“Piss off.” Jaime shoved the  sellsword out of the way and extended his hand towards Sansa. “Sister.” 

Gratefully, she took his hand and, with the new, rather heavy cloak weighing her down, she let him help her back to her feet. 

Tyrion reached up and threaded his hand through her arm. For a second, he caught her eyes and, most importantly her smile. That was before they were both swept up in the moment. Open arms extended towards them, mouths voiced their congratulations and hands were joined. The air swept them up and took them somewhere else – somewhere where Stannis didn’t await, less than a league away. They spoke in the same tones they’d used when Cersei had been finally put down. Tyrion felt that fresh air in his lungs and took it in.  _ It won’t last.  _

But it did. The onion knight was forgotten. The siege was forgotten. No one questioned why there wasn’t a feast, or why Sansa had forsaken her home to marry at  Casterly Rock. There was a time and a place for such concerns and now that place was buried deep away, the clothes put away for winter. 

When they were alone at last, it remained buried, even when Tyrion was certain the memories would be unearthed and brought back into the moonlight. 

He found Sansa lounging across the seats in the Lord’s chamber, she was picking at the dirt on her dress where she’d knelt before the heart tree. Her wedding cloak hung from one corner of the bed and her shoes had been kicked across the room. He cocked his head; he had never seen her so relaxed before. 

“What?” She smirked, taking her attention away from the stains. “You look surprised to see me.”

“Surprised is one word I could use.”  _ I thought you’d be back on the walls, waiting for a sign of attack.  _

She read his mind. “I am the watcher on the walls.” She dropped her voice to mimic the men of the night’s watch. “But not tonight.”

“And if Stannis decides to attack anyway?” He moved to stand in front of her. 

“Then he’ll come. There’s nothing we can do to stop him now. If he wanted to make peace, he would’ve sent Davos back by now. He’s made his position clear.” She shrugged and leant towards a nearby table, with two filled glasses already prepared. 

“To Stannis?” 

She chuckled. “Gods no. Why waste a toast on a man who’ll be dead within the next few days? It’s much better suited for a Lord and his Queen – who will also be dead within the next few days.” 

“How dire.” He raised his cup to her and they toasted. The wine warmed his gullet the whole way down with its spices that had been brewing the whole day. He set the cup down and dropped a finger beneath her chin. 

“Are you happy, despite-”  _ your imminent death, your missing sister, Margaery Tyrell and all she brings with her, the peace you worked on being torn about... I could go on - “ _ everything?”

She drained her cup and licked the wine from her lips. His mouth was dry once more. 

“Perfectly.” 

It did not take long for them to find themselves in bed, flesh pressed against flesh and eyes locked on one another. Time was no longer a consideration. Their bodies rose and fell as one whilst the moon, full as it was, sat high in the sky. They could not know that by the time that moon was gone, Stannis would have made his move, but they held each other like it was an inescapable fact. They were not the only ones. 

Theon Greyjoy, reaching a low after the high of the day, sat alone at a small desk. He clutched a quill in one hand, but the parchment before him remained stubbornly blank. The words would not come and by the time he lowered the tip just to write a name, the ink was dried up and useless. He cursed under his breath and tried again. And again. And again. 

In the room next door, his sister was also restless. She had wanted to spend the night in her quarters on her ship – the soft waves of a harbour were the most soothing – but everyone was acting like the keep would fall in the morning, so she forced herself to remain inside its four walls. Sleep had evaded her for long enough, however, and she was sat on the edge of the bed, forcing on her salt stained boots and breaking out into the halls. She found the tower she was looking for and climbed until her legs burned and a fire caught in her chest. 

“Lady, I mean, Queen Asha – what are you doing here?” The maester awoke easily and his bright eyes squinted to regard her in the gloom of his rooms. 

“You have salt water?” She crossed her arms across her chest and didn’t bother to drop her voice to suit the lull of the rest of the keep. 

“Um yes, of course.”

Maesters often used fresh salt water for their medicines, the ones on Pyke had, at least. This one reached down to the bottom of his shelves and hauled up a tin bucket, half filled with water, a slight rim of salt just forming. 

“May I ask what you need to for?” He handed it over. 

“Closest I can get to the sea.” She said offhand. “Do you have a basin I could use?”

Once  again, he nodded, mumbling, and this time left for his own bedchambers, returning a minute later with a basin. He set it down on the table and she poured the saltwater into it, a few inches deep. 

“And now-” she winked at him before bending over in a sharp, sudden movement and submerging her face in the water. With eyes shut tight, she held herself there until the water threatened to climb into her lungs, at which point she emerged, dripping everywhere, and gasping for breath. 

“A prayer?”

Asha supposed a  maester was bound to know the practices of the Ironborn. “Aye.” She wiped at her face with her sleeve and rubbed the stinging water from her eyes. 

“May I ask what for? For luck?” 

_ Luck? “ _ Something like that.” She smiled towards him, nodded and took her leave. When the door shut behind her, she spluttered out some of the remaining water.  _ We’ll be needing l _ _ uck, and Margaery Tyrell.  _

The first projectiles struck at dawn and the whole keep burst into life. The sentiments from the day before were struck from their minds. And all,  _ all _ , that mattered was the integrity of the walls that hadn’t been breached in centuries. Still, the ground shook and the sound of crumbling stone was unmistakable. 

Sansa emerged swiftly, strapped into her armour and with her knife within reach. She met Ser Jaime in the courtyard and together climbed to the top of the ramparts where the arrow holes gave a perfect view of the armies ahead of them. The great wooden arms of the trebuchet swung again and, once more,  Casterly Rock shouldered another blow. Meanwhile on the ground, the tide of men was rushing closer – the hired armies Stannis had brought, approaching with their steel and eyes set upon the great doors that separated them. 

Black stags fluttered in the wind, flag bearers mounted and overlooking the action. At their centre, was a man, clad in dark steel and, even from a distance, visibly frowning. There was no sign of Ser Davos. 

“The door will only hold for so long.” Jaime breathed beside her. 

She nodded her head fervently. The first waves of men clashed against its ancient oak. She thought of the heart tree in the garden.  _ Another time.  _

“It’s like the dead come again.” She smirked. Of course, when the dead had arrived at Winterfell, she’d still been secured in her chambers. In those rooms at Winterfell, the crack of the doors bursting resonated up to them and, even now,the sound still echoed in her head as she thought back to that night, years ago. “We beat them, and we’ll beat Stannis.” 

She didn’t believe her own words and she knew Jaime didn’t either. He gave her a look she supposed was sympathetic before turning to a team of Ironborn waiting nearby. 

“To the door!” He pointed towards them and they obeyed, without question and definitely without the agreement of their Queen Asha. Jaime stepped back. “I’ll go down with the men.” Now he raised his iron hand to her. “You, stay here.”

“I wouldn’t go down there for a hundred dragons.” She smiled, quickly ducking her head as another projectile made its mark. She cursed under her breath and, when she looked up, he was gone. 

That was where she remained, high on the battlements, peering over the edges and trying not to count the number of men slamming into their walls, clawing and beating them to get inside. She said a prayer for every one of them caught by an arrow, and another prayer for every barrel of oil that fell heavily to the ground. Bursts of fire cut their numbers down but, every time Sansa thought they had made a dent, more came and took their place. There was nothing she could do but shout and jeer with the rest of her men – Tyrion and Asha’s men. Her own men were with her sister, or perhaps still in Winterfell.  _ Either way, they must be leagues away. I should never have let her go. If she’s not up there then I- _

Something cracked. Her stomach dropped. 

A hand slipped into her own. For a moment, she did not much think of it and assumed Tyrion had joined her above.  _ No, that doesn’t make sense, Tyrion is with the archers on the lower levels.  _

“ Door’ll be down soon.” A familiar voice remarked, calmly. She glanced up and found the dark mess of Jon Snow beside her. He shook his head. “They outnumber us.”

_ He says us, but he’s  _ _ dead, _ _ so he means just me.  _

“Ten to one.” She shrugged.

“I’d say fifteen.” 

“I’d say it doesn’t matter how many. We know from Winterfell that numbers aren’t everything.” She took her hand from his cold grasp and rested it on the wall. 

“Sansa, that was hardly two to one. And you had reinforcements.” 

“What was I supposed to do?” She hissed, not willing to throw up her hands and create the scene she wanted with a man no one else could see. “I wrote enough letters to make up a tree. Only the  Greyjoys came. They call me a Queen but I couldn’t even get enough men together to-”

“You did more than write letters.” He cut her off. The coolness of his voice stung. 

“I sent Arya and Gendry to their deaths and for what?” She looked across the field of Baratheon flags. “Not even the Tyrells will make it here in time. I’ve come to terms with it, Jon. There’s no need for you to stand here and-”

“Who are you talking to?” 

Sansa whirled around to find Daenerys Targaryen approaching. Her hand remained close to her sword, to Lightbringer. 

“No one.”

“The door will be down soon.” Another crack served to prove her point. Daenerys stood by her side. 

“Any sign of your dragon?” Sansa tried. “We could really use one now.” The wood creaked below them, she balled one hand into a fist. 

The dragon herself shook her head and said nothing. Sansa looked out again, the stags were still incoming. Their forces appeared to never end – a whole ocean full of black and yellow. Now the ground itself was shaking and Sansa lost grip of her thoughts and any words of comfort she might have offered. Another netted bag of rocks slammed against the wall, close to where they stood. The walls still held but a chunk crumbled, bits of rock bouncing through the air as they raced to meet the ground. Dany took her arm and they both stepped backwards. Sansa instead looked over the courtyard where men still pushed back against the incoming men – faces red and sweating from the stress.

Silence.

The men grounded themselves but slid backwards.

Silence.

The sound of a thousand bits of wood splintering cut into the air. She knew what it meant. A second more and the gates would be down. A second after that, the courtyard would floor with bodies and steel would meet steel and then flesh and then move on. The entire assembled keep held its breath. 


	14. The Hand of Mercy

The doors didn’t break. 

There were still shouts from the other side- the clanging of swords and the screams and cries of battle. Yet they’d stopped beating down the gates. Sansa crawled to her feet and moved back to the edge of the wall. As far as she could see, nothing had changed. The swelling of the black and yellow ocean had not ceased. Yet when she looked closer, when she focused on single men, she thought she was in some kind of dream. The men had turned on one another. 

Daenerys joined her, equally confused, but someone else was squeezed in the space between the two of them. It was Jon, once more. He wore a strange smile on his face. 

“Don’t you remember your lessons, Sansa?  Sigils tell a thousand tales. And what is the funny thing about bastard sigils?”

_ They’re inverted.  _

“They’re inverted!” She called out, louder than anticipated. The  Dragonqueen and some of the surrounding men looked towards her but she could only grin. “A bastard tends to paint their shields and hang their banners with the colours of their  sigil inverted. A black stag on a yellow background would just become a yellow stag on a black background.” She pointed a finger towards a section of men holding back – archers, with their Lord’s banner overhead – a yellow stag dancing across a field as black as night. 

_ Gendry.  _

It took everything she had not to scream out to him, wherever he was, and offer him all of her gratitude. It had taken months of waiting, of worrying and of denying, so long that she’d lost all hope, but there he and his men were,  Baratheons from Storm’s End fighting borrowed men in Stannis’ colours. 

_ I would bet a great deal that Stannis got wind of his nephew’s approach and launched his attack quickly, in hopes of seeing us dead before he was closed in from the sea and the land. He was too slow though, once again, Stannis Baratheon has failed. _

_ “ _ What’s happening out there?” A gruff voice called out from down in the courtyard. Sansa leant across the ramparts and grinned. 

“Gendry!” She managed to huff out. She took a breath and centred herself, picking out Jaime and Brienne in the crowd. “Ready the men, when the gates are cleared, open them up and take Stannis’ men from behind.” She called out. The two of them nodded and returned to their work. 

From below, another voice piped up. “Did you say fuck them in the arse, your Grace?”

She picked out the figure of Ser Bronn, poorly armoured but bouncing with unspent energy. She pressed her lips together. Her Septa loomed in the back of her mind.  _ Noble-bred Ladies don’t think, let alone say such things, even in times of war.  _

Two men on the wall rushed towards her. 

“The gates nearly clear, should we raise it?” 

Sansa smirked and stood at her full height. 

“Open the gates and go __ fuck them in the arse!” 

Tyrion expected, after all the fighting he’d seen, that war was something he’d be fairly used to by now. His men gathered around, arrows set in the slim holes in the walls, notched and ready to strike, and he did not feel an ounce of fear. But when he heard the first cries and the cracks of the gate, the great wooden shield that had served as his protection for most of his childhood, his stomach dropped and beads of sweat sprouted on his forehead. 

He climbed up onto a crate and peered out of the final, unmanned, arrow-slit to make his own judgement. There was little to see from his view-point – only the men and women out in the courtyard, barring the gates with weapons drawn at the ready. More sounds of splintering followed, echoing through the corridors and the heat in him rose further. 

Then there was shouting. Unintelligible words were flung across the open space and then there came the sound of wood scratching against stone as the doors of  Casterly Rock were opened.  _ The fuck are they doing?  _ He flinched, waiting for the inevitable flood of men to swarm the keep and overwhelm the forces on the ground in an instant. But the tides flowed in the opposite direction and he had his archers hold their arrows back as his own men ran outside into the skirmish and joined an already progressing battle. 

After the initial confusion, relief swiftly took charge. If the men could fight in the lands beyond the Rock, that meant Stannis was showing signs of weakening and the siege had broken, but not in his favour. That meant no fighting in the keep. That meant Sansa wouldn’t feel the need to defend herself as she had so stubbornly dedicated herself to do. She was set on not sitting by while enemy forces overran  Casterly Rock, but that didn’t mean she would seek out battle. 

He bent his knees to get a better view of the ramparts and caught a flash of red hair shining in the mid-morning sun. Beside her, he was sure he could see Daenerys as well, pointing towards something far beyond his vision.  _ The dragon and the wolf- Jon Snow would be pleased to see his Queen and his actual Queen standing side by side like that.  _

He gave it a few more minutes, just to be certain, then turned to his small company of men. “Join the men on the ramparts, you’re wasted here.” The mixture of Lannister and Ironborn heads nodded and jogged away and upwards, another line of defence. 

He walked somewhat lazily when he followed them to the top of the Rock. His mind was indeed elsewhere, giving his thanks to whatever God was looking down favourably on them on that day. In truth, he knew there would be a reason for their change of fortune, but he understood where Sansa came from when she made her little prayers to the Old Gods of the North. Fortunes could switch in an instant, they relied on little more than luck. The work of the Gods, however, had meaning, substance. Why bring them  salvation now only to tear it away later and let Stannis win the day? He mumbled a request as well, something he hadn’t done in some time. He was thinking of Jaime. Jaime with only one sword-hand. Jaime without the speed and agility of his youth. Jaime whose talents resided in war councils, not in war itself. 

_ He has Brienne,  _ he told himself. The two of them,  _ the two idiots,  _ with their matching swords and years of pining, always kept one eye on the other.  _ Could I ever be the same for Sansa, for my own wife?  _ He couldn’t exactly picture himself, sword in hand, slaying men left, right and centre while she did the same on her side. He could hold his own, and so could she, but neither were meant for battle, or war. He scrubbed the thought away, for the time being, he had much more immediate issues to deal with. 

When he reached the ramparts, he found Sansa in deep conversation with one of the  Ironborn spearmen, pointing towards certain concentrations of Stannis’ men. He caught the back of Daenerys as she skidded through a door and out of sight. 

“Can I ask, what possessed whoever ordered the gate opened?” Tyrion said.

“I did.” Her eyes were still darting towards the battle lines. 

“Have you lost your wit?” He took hold of her arm, momentarily concerned. 

She raised her brows. “We’re not alone, Tyrion. Look-” she pointed towards a set of distant men on a hill overlooking the action. “Gendry finally showed his face.” 

Tyrion chuckled to himself.  _ Thank the bloody, fucking Gods. “ _ Baratheon against Baratheon heh? That’ll be a show.” 

“We can’t sit back and enjoy it yet. Stannis still outnumbers us and the keep is poorly defended. Gendry brought what he could but with most of the south with Margaery-” she trailed off, gesturing with her hands to signify the shit hand they’d been dealt. 

“But Gendry took them by surprise, no? We have less men but, from what I see, we have the advantage.” He gave her arm a slight squeeze but the tension on her face didn’t shift. 

“I would like that advantage to be ten times its size. And I would like to see Ser Davos returned to us.” The clashes below continued but she was no longer looking that way. Instead, she looked ahead where a cluster of Baratheon men, Stannis’ men, were nestled, watching over the battle. At their centre was the greying stag himself, holding his horse like it was cast in marble. 

“Stannis wouldn’t hurt Davos- he served him, remember?” 

She shook her head. “I do remember and that is the exact reason I’m worried. I don’t think he’d really hurt him, but I can’t see him being too concerned with threatening him, holding him to ransom as some means of saving his own poor hide.”

He knew what she meant. Even if Stannis would never kill his old Hand, if they refused to make peace for his life, they would appear the cruel ones. He didn’t say anything, he had nothing to add. 

Gendry Baratheon ducked under a swing of a blade, turned on his heel, and brought his hammer across the man’s chest, caving it in completely. In a sidestep, he was knocking down another and pushing on towards the keep ahead of him. When they had fallen in with the enemy, they’d struck them quick and taken them by surprise, but such moments of victory slipped way and soon the scales were set evenly. He saw a flash of red that told him Lannister men had joined them from the keep itself. He had to get in there, he had to ask all the questions that had bubbled within him since he arrived at Casterly Rock to find no other army there to support them.

Then there was the other thing, the far more important thing, he needed to tell Sansa Stark. He was out of breath, but he took himself back to his run through the haunted forest and across the icy plains North of the Wall. If he could do that, the short stretch across the battleground was nothing. He carried on. 

“Gendry!” A hand slapped hard on his back. He looked up to a flash of dark blond hair and a red blade drawing artistic lines through the air. Jaime Lannister danced his usual routine- making up for his missing hand by moving in wide, encompassing circles then using the dagger within his iron hand to pick off anyone who got too close. They fell into rhythm with one another and Gendry took the chance to air some of his questions. 

“How long?” He huffed out. 

Jaime shrugged, relieving a man of his arm. “A month or so, we forced Stannis’ hand to end it quickly.” 

“Arya, have you heard from Arya?” That was what had plagued his mind the most. 

For a moment, Jaime stopped and met his eyes, before his sword was raised again to meet an oncoming axe. “We haven’t heard. She’ll be alright though. You know she’s-”

He didn’t hear what Jaime said next. A great ringing was filling his ears. At first, he thought he’d been struck across the head, yet there was no pain and he’d felt no contact. His arms kept swinging and his hammer continued to make its marks but he wasn’t thinking about it anymore. 

_ I never worried about her before.  _ He’d never had a need to. Jaime Lannister was right, Arya was a force to be reckoned with and had made it, on her own, across the Narrow Sea and back, as if it were nothing. When they parted outside of  Maidenpool , it hadn’t even crossed his mind that he should be concerned. She was travelling North, to her home, he’d taken it for granted that she’d find her way back.  _ Because she always does. _ He couldn’t pin down how he felt. His head had all but emptied, fuelled only by the endless barrage of limbs swirling across his vision. He swung and swiped and pushed on but Arya was still far away, still an unknown, still lost. 

“Gendry!” A heavy shoulder struck him in the middle of his back, knocking him off his balance and into the turned ground, thick with dirt. A horse thundered past him, sword singing as it swept low to reach down, but he was just clear of it. He forced himself to his feet and found Ser Brienne nearby, now fending off three sellswords with almost a smile. He brushed the dirt away and headed onwards, towards the keep and the recognisable red hair caught on the wind above it. 

“How many more have to die?” Sansa’s voice was quiet, trembling. “Even if we win, so many have to fall just to let that happen.’” Her hand gripped the stone wall tightly as they watched the battle unfold. 

“That’s war, Sansa.” Tyrion sighed; it was not a prospect he enjoyed either but it was inescapable. “Men died for you at Winterfell, but you honoured their sacrifice, did you not?” 

She nodded but clenched her jaw. “That doesn’t mean it was right. If we can get Stannis to stand down-”

“He won’t.”

Sansa clasped her hands together and paced across the battlements. He could see her mind at work. Stannis had already rejected their terms once, he couldn’t see him accepting now, with his men already on the line. Yet, she was reaching for something out of his view, and he found it fascinating to watch on. 

“What are the chances we win.” She uttered quickly, her tone suddenly desperate. 

He took a look onto the field below. Gendry’s men and his own men had the  sellswords surrounded. “Good,” he considered with a shrug of the shoulders. 

“Be certain.” 

“We’ll win.” He went to take her hands, but she moved along, calling out to a group of  Ironborn men nearby. She asked for a horse to be saddled and a helmet to be found for her. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What are you doing?”

“Stannis will put every man to death, including his own, if he thinks that it’s needed. If we’ve all but won, there’s no point in any more bloodshed.”

“So, what, you’re going to ride in there yourself, take him prisoner?” He almost laughed at the image but that only earnt him a scowl. 

“Precisely. I am a woman of mercy, Tyrion, let me show him what that means.”

There was a look in her eye he couldn’t place. Along with that, she had a tendency to look behind her, in the direction of the sea, as if she expected something to happen there at any moment. He knew there was no use in arguing, they’d gone through that already. He’d hoped, in vain obviously, that she’d think again about marching to battle like some ancient hero. Instead, she just smiled and followed a small trail down the ramparts in the ground below. He followed on. 

“Gendry!” He heard her explain and he looked up to find the young Baratheon Lord jogging up to the gate to meet them. He dropped his war hammer to the ground beside him and wiped the mingled sweat, dirt and blood from his brow. 

“Your Grace.” There was no time for bowing and deference, the look in his eyes was too wild. “I have news.” 

In the meantime, a horse had been prepared and someone had fetched a helmet for her. Gendry spoke as she stripped away the skirt of her gown, revealing armoured greaves beneath, and mounted. 

“Margaery is on the way here. She was moving slower than us, but she’ll be here soon and then-”

“I know.” She spoke calmly though appeared a little disappointed with the news. “We received words several days ago.”

“Are there more men coming? When Stannis is dealt with?” 

She shook her head. “I think you misunderstand. Margaery is here for him, not me. Stannis is vying for her crown while I’m just hurrying to get away.”

Tyrion wanted to remind her that Margaery didn’t need to be escaped from, but he doubted it was worth repeating. He still found something strange about the Rose sending catspaws after Daenerys in such a heavy-handed manner.  _ I can’t consider her guilty without proof, or else I’m nothing more than my sister.  _

“Oh.” Gendry’s frame softened.

“In fact, her arrival has been advantageous. It has made Stannis desperate, irrational. Obviously, I cannot thank you enough for arriving on time.” Another horse had been brought forward, without anyone ordering it, and Gendry claimed it for himself. 

“Don’t thank me yet. He won’t give up until we’re in the ground.” He hauled himself onto the horse’s back and a squire handed him the hammer which he set across his lap. 

“I’m going to make him a counter offer,” she smiled simply. At that moment, some of the Ironborn spearmen emerged into the yard with a man between them – the Florent boy sent to treat with them. He was not shackled or bound, nor was his shoved into the open air. In fact, Tyrion thought after a night on a featherbed and a good meal, he looked better off than when he had arrived. 

Gendry sat back in the saddle, hands still on the reins, and the emissary was helped onto the front. Tyrion looked towards the three of them, armoured and bristling to head into the field of battle with some vision of peace ahead of them. Sansa had fixed the helmet over her head and leant slightly forward, ready to ride on. He approached her horse carefully and laid his hand against its heavy flank. 

“What if Stannis doesn’t want to make a deal?” She didn’t look down to see him. 

“Oh, he won’t want to- but I’m not planning on giving him much of a choice.” She leant down slightly and laid a hand against his cheek. “I have a plan.”

He could just see the blue of her eyes shining through the slit in her helmet. He nodded and, before he could say anymore, she gave a flick of the reins and started out of the gate, followed swiftly behind by Gendry and their captive. He climbed quickly back to the ramparts to get a better view and watched the horses dip into the battle, the men parting for them like cloth cut by a knife. 

_ She has a plan, that’s what she said.  _ He kept telling it to himself, hoping he’d believe it.  _ Did she have a plan when she went into the Twins alone? Or when she was moments away from having her throat slit by my sister?  _

He didn’t believe she did, but then again, she’d survived despite it all – a fish out of water that had learnt to breathe. A pawn who learnt to play the game, who made herself its ruler. He did not pray to the Gods, Old or New, for her sake. His wife didn’t need it. Sansa Stark’s luck was her own and he didn’t believe today would be the day it would run out. At least, that was the lie he kept telling himself.

“Stannis Baratheon!” Sansa had ridden to the very edge of the battle, where many of the Baratheon men, Gendry’s men, had formed their lines. On the hill overlooking, Stannis still remained with his small group of guards. She set herself apart from the masses and called to him again. Gendry joined in, then others who had dropped their weapons to follow their Queen and Lord, mounted and in chorus. 

She feared he would never take notice, but as the fighting behind her began to quell as distracted eyes fell on her, his horse was spurred into action and the group of men moved as one towards them. The field dropped into pure silence. Sansa swallowed hard. 

“Lady Stark.” The call came out when he was close enough. Stannis’ men were still far enough away not to pose a threat, but she could see his face and its stony expression. “Have you come to surrender?” The men around him chuckled. She gritted her teeth. 

_ Do I look as if I’m holding a white flag? _

“You’re going to lose, Lord Stannis. The men sworn to your house have turned against you and, soon, the Southern army will be here to sweep you aside. This is your last fight. Let it be over now, before any more lives are lost for no reason.”

“Why would I do that? You wish me to stand down so that you and your false Queen can hold on to your crowns. You are pretenders, the both of you, and no King would allow you to continue this ruse.” 

“I offer you your man back, at least. He has been well-kept; I can assure you.” She turned aside. “You may go.” She had no reason to keep the Florent boy any longer. After a moment of hesitation, he launched himself from the horse’s back and trotted on foot across the open space between them. “Now return Ser Davos to me, he went to you in good faith and I would like to see him safely returned as well.”

The Stag leant backwards and spoke to one of the  guards behind him. He disappeared behind the hill for a second, before returning, a figure tied to the reins of his horse. From the distance, Sansa could just make out the Onion Knight’s frame. The guard stopped. She waited for his release. 

She waited. 

The statues on the hill appeared to actually be cast in granite. 

She waited. 

Gendry shrugged at her. She took in a deep gulp of air,  tinged with the taste of metal. 

“Send him back to us, Stannis. Ser Davos has acted only as a messenger.” Her voice rose over the silence. No reply came. “My Lord, you are honour-bound to return him to us safely.”

_ Though when did honour mean shit to Stannis Baratheon.  _

“What terms do you offer?” Stannis finally called back, deviating from the knight bound beside him. “If I were to order my men retreat, what would you offer in return.”

She looked between him and Davos, then shook her head. “Mercy, I would offer you mercy. I am willing to forget the crimes you have committed against the North, against my people and my kingdom, but I cannot say the same for Margaery Tyrell. The punishment is not mine to give, so I would give you to her keeping, for a proper trial at King’s Landing. Your men would be returned to Essos and the men of Westeros that stand with you will go to the wall, I can assume.”

He smiled. “The false Southern Queen would see me dead. You offer me death or death – that is an impossible choice.”

She nodded. “Aye, but they the only choices I can give you. Do you know how many men and women behind me would relish to see you dead, myself included? You had your own brother killed, turned against King and Queen alike and now stand here, proclaiming yourself  _ true  _ and  _ honest _ ? If you sat upon that throne, the Kingdom would burn. You stand down, or I’ll have no choice but to see you dead. That is my mercy. Do with it as you please.”

_ He will never make that choice.  _

“There is another, one I think you have forgotten. If I kill you and your traitorous family and everyone else behind you, I won’t have to have your permission to do a thing.” He brought his horse a step closer. 

“You’re right, but where does it end? The North stands against you, as do most houses of the South. You can kill us here today, but you’ll have to face them too. Perhaps you’ll even make it the Iron Throne, but who will you rule over? A kingdom of corpses? Even the men you lead only go with you because of the coin in your pocket. When that runs out, who will keep the peace? Who will stop the people rising up?” She shook her head. “You have nothing, my Lord. Let me offer you a chance to walk away with at least a fraction of your dignity intact. Return Ser Davos to me and have your men stand down. It is simple.”

Now Stannis looked down to the man beside him. In a single movement, he dropped to floor and untied the old knight’s ropes. He placed a hand, delicately, upon his shoulder. 

Gendry made an optimistic sound beside her, but Sansa held her celebrations back. 

Every eye was fixed on the spectacle in the distance. No one could hear what was being said, but Stannis leant in towards his old Hand and is mouth moved quickly and succinctly. Davos looked up and, in a slow move, nodded his greying head and looked ahead. 

Sansa’s eyes were fixed on the knight so closely that she did not see the sword drawn, nor did she see it lifted up, high into the air. 

She opened her mouth but no words came out. Gendry was shouting beside her, but she couldn’t hear a word. The world around her stood perfectly still, like a fine painting, and she breathed out a shaky breath. 

The picture before was one she knew would stay with her. Stannis’ party was still atop the hill, but she could’ve been standing beside them; she could see every detail. Ser Davos had fallen to his knees, his mouth hung open in a prayer and his eyes were staring dead ahead, unblinking. A flash of steel seemed to float above him, held in the air for the second that dragged on. The men surrounding them stood further back, looking between themselves and  the man they called king. 

Then she saw herself, dropping down from her saddle, mouth agape but still wordless. Behind her, the  Baratheons joined their Lord in screams and cries of injustice. Back in the keep, she could feel the eyes watching over the whole scene, averting their gaze, cursing the Gods, slamming a fist against the wall. 

The gentle sound of the head hitting the soft earth echoed for leagues. Sansa heard a scream catch on the wind. It wasn’t her own. 

Time hit her like she’d been falling from a great height and was just reaching the ground. Before she could comprehend what she’d seen, before her thoughts had even caught up with her, she was running. Hard and fast her boots pelted the ground, closing the space in-between them. She clenched her jaw, fought off the acid burning in her lungs, and closed her eyes tightly. 

_ Davos- _

“Sansa!” She was thrown back against the grass by the sudden appearance of a horse in front of her. She scrabbled quickly to her feet, forgetting the pain of the fall, and found herself caught in the arms of Gendry. 

She wanted to melt. Every part of her screamed to relax into his smith’s arms and let the fighting recommence while she closed herself off from it all.  _ I can’t. Now more than ever.  _

She wiped at her eyes and shrugged him off, standing on her own against the assembled men in their yellows and blacks. They were still a fair distance away, but now she could see every curve of their cruel smiles, every dark shade of their eyes. 

“You bastard!” She cried out, removing the Valyrian steel from her hip and holding it out. “He was your Hand, your friend!”

“He was a traitor. He turned to you. I had every right-”

“You had no right! He did not turn to me, nor anyone. He came here to see the  Manderlys and get a gift for his wife!” Her voice cracked and scratched but she did not care. “I offered you mercy, peace – your life! You didn’t deserve but I still would’ve rather seen you walk than any more bloodshed.” 

“That makes you weak.” He replied offhand, wiping an oil cloth along the length of his steel. 

“Perhaps, but I would rather that than become whatever you are. You had your own brother killed, your little brother, for the sake of Storm’s End. I have seen two of my brothers die and lost a third as well – but you stripped the life from yours. I-”

“It was the red priestess who did that, the witch.” He declared, proud to prove her wrong. 

Sansa scoffed. “So, you admit you were bested by that witch then, by the Lady Melisandre? She took your blood for her magic and used it to slaughter your younger brother while he changed in his tent, while you sat back and did nothing at all?” 

He said nothing, but some of his men look upon him, with questions on their lips.

“You met my mother, Lady Catelyn, did you not? Do you know what the Tully words are?  _ Family, duty, honour _ . Your family – you have killed. Your duty – you have forsaken for the sake of a crown you so not deserve. And your honour?” She laughed a little. “My father trusted you, years ago. He made a mistake. I will not be doing the same.”

He stepped closer. “What is it that you intend to do? Come here and fight me? Let’s have it done with if you want no more bloodshed. Or you and Lord Lannister can surrender and I can be the one to show you mercy.”

“Mercy? You had your chance for that, but I’m not feeling very merciful anymore. I won’t fight you though, not will I or my husband ever stoop so low as to surrender to you. It seems the fighting must continue.” She smiled, which earnt her a strange look from Gendry. He tried to take her aside and speak into her ear but she was fixed solely on the man ahead of her and his icy stare. 

“So be it.” He sheathed his sword and used the heel of his boot to nudge the prone body at his feet out of his way. “I hope you have enjoyed wasting our time.”

“I offered you a chance to live but you refused. That was all I needed to hear. There will be no more bloodshed today, I can promise you that. But that doesn’t mean I’m planning on letting you live.”

“Enough with your riddles, woman. Go back to hiding behind your walls and to your dwarf.” 

“As you say, my Lord.”

In a slow, single move she raised her hand into the air, balled into a tight fist. There was a moment of stillness, like the first seconds of morning, in which everything is perfect undisturbed. She could hear laughter in the distance but she held firm and took a deep breath. 

The field fell into complete darkness. 

The sun had been torn from the sky. The titters of laughter cut off and no one uttered a word. She held them there, in the darkness, arm raised and eye set unwaveringly on the lone stag ahead of her. 

High upon his hill, he could see what they missed. He could see the great shape that had swung down and spread its dark wings across the sky, blotting out the light like a living shadow. At last, Sansa dared to look up. 

Drogon hung above them, his wings moving rhythmically to keep him hovering in position. She could hear the huff of breath from his long, scaled snout, and she could just see the small figure on top, clinging to his thick neck, silver braids splaying out behind her. 

Daenerys Targaryen had felt different when she awoke that morning. At first, she assumed it was nothing more than the anticipation of battle. Yet, when the battle truly came, she realised it was something very different, much more familiar. 

She had woken before the rise of the sun, while the armies outside still sat dormant, sleeping. The rest of the keep was stuck in the same state. Soon it would come to life, but for the next hour, she soaked in the rare moment of bliss. She dressed in silence and slipped out of her rooms within minutes, letting her legs follow their own path while her still sleep-addled brain fought to keep up. It was not until the sudden shock of cold air against her cheeks that she realised she was being led outside. 

She was at the top of a tower, looking out over the cliff edge, as the dark waves fought their never-ending battle with the land. The stars and moon cast strange, broken reflections on the writhing waters below and she watched their dance of light and darkness until a greater light rose behind her and she was spurned back to the present. 

It wasn’t long then before the first rocks made their mark on the keep’s walls and the ground trembled beneath her. On quick, nimble feet, she slipped back inside where, like a bolting horse, life had sprung once more.

Daenerys found her place on the top of the ramparts beside Sansa Stark, who kept her eyes fixed ahead at all times, largely towards the far distance where Stannis Baratheon watched on. At first, her own eyes had been drawn to the men below, who, like the waves, heaved and grasped and shoved to put their weight against the gates of the keep and see them toppled. But then, when the true Baratheon had come forward to even the scales and the doors had been opened, purposefully, Daenerys bent her neck to look upwards, into the clouds, for the sign she was hoping for. 

It was as all had been looking at Gendry’s men that she’d heard it. A cry in the sky that had rung so sweetly in her ears. When she’d looked up though, there was nothing to see.  _ I know what I heard.  _ She kept searching and waiting and searching... until-

“There!” Her finger shot upwards, pointing into the white sky. It had been there for less than a second- just a flash of a wing- but she was sure of it.

“Where?” Sansa pulled her eyes from the battle and shielded them as she followed Dany’s direction. The sky had returned to stillness once more. An endless field of snow but-

She saw it again and by the slight gasp beside her, Sansa had too. This had been two wings, slicing through the layers of cloud; black razors in the perfect whiteness. 

“Will he come down?” Sansa mumbled, her voice wavering slightly.  _ She still isn’t used to him.  _

“If he sees me, he will.” She did not falter but felt herself buzzing with sudden excitement, sudden purpose. She hadn’t been parted from  Drogon for so long before and just to see him again filled her with an energy she didn’t think could be matched. “I’ll find somewhere for him to set down.”

“Out of sight.” The Queen in the North commanded in her serene tone once more. She met her eyes. “I stand by what I said before, I can’t allow you to put all of those men at risk. Stannis still deserves justice, not slaughter.”

“As you say.” Her eyes kept flicking upwards in anticipation. “But if it comes to it, I will not hesitate to use him. You know that.” 

Sansa returned her gaze ahead. “I do. Keep out of sight but ready to strike. If you see me raise me hand, it’ll be time.”

_ She wants to give him a chance, but he’ll never surrender. The man has too much pride, I’ve seen a million men like him before. She’ll need me before the day is out, and I’ll be happy to oblige.  _

Stannis did not move. The eyes of the dragon had captured him in their dark, lifeless stare. He was not a complete fool. He knew no man could outrun such a beast. Slowly, Sansa lowed her first and made the first few steps forward, leaving Gendry behind her. 

“You are pathetic, Stannis Baratheon, and the world will remember you as such. Did you think you could face King and Queen slayers and live to tell the tale? Still, I believe you are a smart man, and deep within a fair man. It is a shame not to give you into the hands of Margaery Tyrell and have you face trail. Then again, it would be wrong of me to let you take one more step on this earth without a knife in your back.”

“You said mercy!” He growled.

“I did. Then you killed my friend, and I changed my mind. How will your daughter feel about you killing the man who cared so much for her?” She ran  her blade across her gloved hands. 

“You will not hurt Shireen. She has done nothing wrong.” His voice cracked. 

For a moment she faltered and dropped her hand to her side. “I will show her mercy, you have my word.” She brought her hand back up. “The same cannot be said for you, my Lord.”

“You could not do it. You killed Joffrey Lannister in his sleep like a coward. I fought beside my brother in war, I was his equal, your father’s equal. Bring Jaime Lannister out here, he’ll do the job.” 

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but my mind is made up. It’s over. You’re done.” With her sword arm outstretched, she cast her eyes over his figure. Standing before her, he looked smaller than before. His men appeared thinner and she could see their shared exhaustion. 

“I, Sansa of House Stark, first of my Name, Queen of the North, Lady of Winterfell and  Casterly Rock , sentence you, for the crimes of murder and treason, to death. May all of the Gods, Old and New bear witness. Any last words?” 

Stannis looked to his men around him, but their eyes were fixed on the looming dragon overhead. He snapped back to face her and snarled. “I have no words for you.”

Sansa slipped the knife back in her sword belt. “Good, I only have one word for you.”

Thousands of men’s eyes burnt into her back. But they were far away. Even Gendry was too far away for her to think of. 

The world was only her and Stannis. In the short distance between them, she could see every feature of his face, every wrinkle, ever grey hair, and every bit of malice behind his expression.  _ I once wished he’d come save me when he attacked at the Blackwater. Now I know better.  _ A million moments flashed behind her eyes- every second of the years she had spent fighting for peace and freedom, fighting for her life and her home and her people.  _ This is the end.  _ She knew it was- it had to be. Stannis Baratheon held his last piece on the board, and she was ready to deliver her final blow. 

There was herself, blockading herself in her rooms, tears on her cheeks and a hand forced into her mouth to keep her from screaming. Now there she was again, standing alone in the warm almost-afternoon light, an army behind her and its commander ahead.  _ I prayed for him, but I was wrong to. I never needed Stannis Baratheon to save me. I did it myself.  _

Sansa looked up for a brief moment and knew the time had come. Her family stood alongside her, as they always did. She opened her mouth. 

‘Dracarys.’ 


	15. The Last Lions

The fire burnt hot and quick. Screams were caught short in lungs no sooner than they were heard. For a moment, figures writhed and tried to escape but the flames consumed all and left nothing behind. She was close enough to feel the warmth on her skin, to smell the burning flesh, to see the bodies drop to the floor as, one by one, they gave up. Gendry was pulling at her arm, tugging her back, shouting in her ear, but she couldn’t hear. She was watching the fire burn. She was the flames. 

But then, it wasn’t just the flames. When the fire was just embers and ash, something moved from within the blackness. Still bodies shifted and groped as they hauled themselves back to life. Charred faces turned to look at her, eyes stripped from their sockets, limbs missing. 

It was then that she began to run. The field had emptied as if no battle had tainted its pure soils, and though she screamed at them to open the gates to her,  Casterly Rock remained as peaceful and still as death. Her head shot round. The figures, dragging their lifeless forms towards her, were faster than she had expected. The wights that had been the soldiers of the Night King had been fast too, but they were creatures of ice and bone. These spirits of fire were blackened, like old coals, and had no master to be killed. 

She pounded her fists on the oak panels, but no one came. There was only her, Sansa Stark, and the hands reaching out towards her. The hands of the dead stretching ever closer. Fingers brushed her cheek. Hands lost themselves in her hair. She closed her eyes tight and opened her mouth in a scream. 

_ It was too easy. It was too easy. It was too easy. _

Sansa shot up in bed, breathing hand. Her hands raked across her skin, feeling the parts of her cheek where the dead-men's fingers had clawed at her. There was nothing there, except a thin sheen of sweat. 

After some particularly laboured breathes, she felt stirring beside her. Tyrion woke lazily but pushed himself up on his elbows when he came into full  consciousness . The blood was still pumping loudly though her ears and she could only just hear his voice. 

“Sansa?” He reached a hand forward and took hold of her forearm, tense from her clenched fist. He sat further up and moved into her vision. “Sansa?”

“Stannis is dead, yes?”

He closed and opened his mouth. “Of course.”

“Are you completely certain. There’s no chance that he-”

He squeezed her arm. “You watched him burn, remember. No one survived. Whatever you saw, it was a dream. He’s gone.”

_ So that part of it was true. I watched him burn. I watched him die.  _ She summoned the real memory to her mind and focused on it. When the fire finally died out, no one rose from the ground. The bodies were barely  _ bodies  _ anymore. There was no way anyone could’ve made out, alive or otherwise. She shook her head and dropped her shoulders. 

“It was a dream.” She assured herself. 

Tyrion relaxed beside her, huffing out a sigh of relief. “A nightmare, I think.” He smiled. 

Sansa turned to him. “Did you think it would be harder, to kill Stannis?” 

He thought a moment. “He was only a man.”

“ Valor Morgulis .” She repeated the foreign words aloud and felt a weight lift from her shoulders. She wondered what she had really been expecting from Stannis. Was she waiting for him to shift into a real stag and gorge her with his antlers? Did she expect another army to appear on the horizon and decimate her forces? In the end, he was only man, with his hired swords, and a long due end. 

While she had been considering, a knock had sounded at the door and Tyrion had bid them enter. It was Ser Brienne, her forehead creased in a frown. 

“Yes?” Sansa did her best smile. 

“Men have spotted Margaery. She’ll be here in an hour.” 

Tyrion clenched his jaw. “And here I was looking forward to an uneventful day. Thank you.”

Brienne nodded and took her leave, pulling the door shut behind her. When she was gone, Sansa dragged a hand through her hair. 

“I thought she might just turn round and go back.”

That only earnt her a chuckle as Tyrion pushed himself out of bed and towards the dresser. “No, you didn’t. You hoped that. But you  _ knew  _ she wouldn’t resist a chance to come here.”

He was right. It was a vain hope.  _ I should know better than to expect anything would be easy.  _ She was so close to leaving for Winterfell, she could almost taste the sharp air. But the air here was warm, dipped in honeysuckle and peonies. While it lingered, she was still too far from home to feel at ease. Sometimes, the smell was so heavy, she felt sick.  _ Margaery would adore it, all the flowers and sweet things.  _ Sansa shook her head and forced herself to her feet. She  _ had  _ been expecting such a meeting –  _ now I have to face it.  _

A small party gathered in the courtyard, awaiting the arrival of the Queen of the South. The army had been left behind and remained camped some leagues away. It was just Margaery and her small retinue.  _ Gods,  _ Sansa thought as she fiddling with the hem of sleeve,  _ why does one woman make me feel so nervous?  _

It was a strange sight, the company that met Margaery Tyrell. At the centre stood the Queen in the North, wearing a gown she had died a deep grey and her silver crown upon auburn waves. Beside her, in his best Lannister gold, stood her husband, the Lord Lannister. Gendry Baratheon took his place at Sansa’s other side, in his own finery rather recently emblazoned with the stag of his house. Then, the position on Tyrion’s left was taken up by Asha Greyjoy, Queen of the Iron Islands, still wearing her sea-faring leathers. Their arrangement was not random. Sansa placed Gendry and Asha closest to them, as those that had provided their men and fought off Stannis’ men when the time came. She hoped Margaery would get the message. 

Sers Brienne and Jaime flanked them either side and above, walking the ramparts, Daenerys chose to keep her distance. Across the cliffs, the intermittent cry of  Drogon served to the remind them all that he was nearby. 

The stage was set. They waited. 

The first they heard was a trumpeter, heralding the incoming sounds of hoofbeats against grass and stone. In a minute the horses turned into view and rounded under the gates that still bore the scars of battle just the day before. Sansa caught her breath. At their centre, the sun caught beautifully on the golden band sat delicately upon the small head of the Queen. Her hair, as rich as ever, was tied away from her face in swirling braids, secured at the back of her head. When the horses parted in front of her, she was helped from her saddle and held every eye as she stood perfectly prostrate for a second. 

A light green material was draped across her body, leaving her shoulders bare and the top of her cleavage visible. It was the style of many a woman of the Southern court and one that Margaery frequented often. At the top of her thigh, a split in the forest green gown gave way to the brown slim breeches concealed beneath.  _ Like the  _ _ Dornish _ _ riding trousers we once wore,  _ Sansa had to stop herself from smiling at the memory. Margaery removed her leather gloves, tucking them neatly in the sword belt at her waist, and flexed her white fingers. Her sword-belt was occupied by just one short blade yet the hilt was cast in bone-enamel and carved in intricate vines that were replicated at the bottom of her gown. Sansa took it all in before the Queen of the South took a few steps forward and her herald opened their mouth.  _ She is setting a stage just as I am, I have no choice but to watch her piece.  _

“You stand before Marg-”

The gilded rose held up her hand. “There’s no need for that. These are old friends.” She took a final step forward as if to fill the void that had appeared between them. “It is so good to see you all again. As soon as I heard about your troubles, I raised the banners. There is not enough gratitude in the world for what you have done, the enemy you have vanquished.”

Sansa held her tongue. She had no intention to be unkind; all she wanted was for it to be over with. 

“Thank you, your Grace.” Tyrion spoke for them instead, bobbing his head and clasping his hands together. “It is our pleasure to host you here.” 

_ No, it isn’t. He doesn’t mean that, but he’s a good liar and I am a foul one.  _

But Margaery’s eyes had fallen on her. Her silence had not gone unnoticed. Sansa outranked almost every one of those standing before her, only Margaery able to claim to be her equal, yet she had not said a word. 

“Sansa?” She tried gently. “Your Grace? I have been looking forward to seeing you. You left so quickly before and there are matters I still think need to be addressed.” There was a sincerity in her tone that was not missed. Still, Sansa could neither miss the venom behind the sweetness. Every move was an act, every smile was contrived, and every admission of friendship was made to cover up the guilt. 

“Yes.” She managed, keeping her voice cool. “None more than me wants to see those matters dealt with.”

Reluctantly, the Queen nodded at this meagre response and cast her eyes across the rest of the group. For a moment, she faltered, and the guise appeared to drop away, only to be replaced a second later. 

“Asha?” She said, restraining herself. “It’s... good to -”

“To see me again?” The Kraken jumped down from the elevated stone she had claimed and raised her brow. “How many times are you planning on saying that? You’re pleased to see us, and not Stannis, that’s all you had to say.”

Margaery cleared her throat. She looked at the rest of the onlookers with their expressionless eyes and turned back to Asha. “I am. I was – concerned, for your safety.” 

The distance between them doubled, multiplied and stretched out. Their onlookers said nothing but there was nothing that could be said. Asha had left the capital just as Margaery had received her crown. However strange their relationship was, such  separations were difficult to explain, let alone deal with –  _ I should know.  _

They continued on in silence for another few seconds, which dragged on as all realised  neither planned on speaking up. Their audience didn’t help. 

Once again, Tyrion shattered the moment, clearing his throat and raising a hand upwards. “I’ll have rooms arranged for your men.” In truth here were only eight guards around her, and one wheelhouse that had arrived a little after the rest. 

Margaery finally broke her gaze from the Queen of the  Ironborn , and to the second Queen in their ranks. She nodded her thanks absentmindedly; it was clear there was something else on her mind. Sansa knew what was required. She parted from the others, still holding herself upright and poised, but allowed a brief smile. 

“I can show you the gardens while they settle?” She offered. “It’s no Highgarden but-” She trailed off, not knowing enough about flowers to finish her sentence. Luckily, her point was taken, and the Tyrell joined her and with a quick look to Tyrion, Sansa led her around a corner and out of sight. 

Margaery Tyrell had not seen her old friend for many months, and had no problem being whisked away into the gardens. She took the greatest pleasure roaming around between the plant-beds; their sweet aromas cleared her head and prepared her for her always full days. Yet, she often took her walks alone, especially in the mornings. Once Sansa had taken the place at her side , back at King’s Landing, a brief escape from their husbands and the eyes of Cersei Lannister. The gardens of the Red Keep did not feel so safe when she walked them on her own. Not that she was ever truly on her own; a Queensguard always lingered several paces behind, however much she waved them away. 

The gardens at  Casterly Rock where well known for their perfect lines and carefully cultivated plants cut from across the realm and beyond, so she’d heard. Her mother had once given her an illustrated book, filled with pages of the gardens of the great houses of Westeros. She’d learnt her houses from those pictures – which is why she was certain Sansa wasn’t taking them in the right direction. 

They stepped out of an arched doorway into a small garden, nothing like what she had expected. The flowerbeds twisted out of view then returned, spiralling towards the centre where an oak reached out its gnarled branches. She leant over towards a patch of snowdrops and snapped one off, slipping it neatly in her hair. 

Sansa cleared her throat and she stood back up straight. They walked the curved path together in silence, stopping only once they’d reached the centre. 

“I never knew  Casterly Rock had a winter garden.” The flowers here would never be cultivated in Highgarden, not without constant attention. 

“I doubt the  Lannisters wanted anyone to know, the more recent ones especially.” The Queen’s face betrayed nothing. “The soil was a gift from my ancestors many years ago, nobody can remember why. Still, someone comes here every day and keeps every flower living, however out of place they may be.”

Margaery nodded, now she understood why Sansa had brought her here. She was no different to the Winter blossoms around them – a Northern sprout brought South and forced to grow in a climate she was never built for. It was a miracle she survived but it was no accident. 

“The old lion didn’t have this place torched?” She smirked. It wasn’t hard to imagine Tywin Lannister ordering fire and flame on the symbol of Northern friendship. 

“I’m sure nothing would have please him more. I can only guess the heart tree stood against him.” She reached out and touched its bark. “If any damage came to this, he’d have the entire North and their Gods up in arms.”

“And he was too wise to pick that battle-” she laughed gently, hoping Sansa would join. She did not. Instead, Margaery breathed out and turned to more serious matters. “Stannis Baratheon... he is-”

“Dead? Yes. I had not intended for that to happen. I thought he might suffer more in your hands but he wouldn’t accept mercy.” The she-wolf dropped her head. “He killed Ser Davos, like it was nothing.” She quickly looked up again, regaining her composure. “We burnt him.” 

“Good.” She mumbled.  _ Ser Davos? I remember him by Jon Snow’s side in the North. He was a good man, practical, wiser than he looked. He was always calm when the men went to fight.  _ She wondered if he went to his death with as much tranquility. “Now what?”

Sansa was looking outwards from the tree. “The  Stormlanders return South, and we return North – hopefully to find my sister and get home. I have an aunt to return to Riverrun and a cousin for the Vale. You can rest assured, there’s nothing for you to do. Go back to your keep and await the next pretender.” 

“Come on!” She grinned. “I want to help. Let me come with you to the Causeway at least.” 

“I’d rather you didn’t.” Sansa replied curtly. 

_ Years later and she still won’t forgive me. Stark stubbornness is no myth. _

“I insist. We’ve spent too much time apart. We can ride again like we used to, share food with the men, tell stories and-”

“You think I would ever want to do any of that, with you? Just go, Margaery, there’s nothing for you here.” Sansa clenched her hands together behind her back. Margaery felt herself strain to keep smiling.  _ What I’m asking isn’t so hard, why can’t she just- _

“Why can’t you get down from that damned pedestal and be yourself again? The Sansa I knew would not have judged me so harshly for making my own decision and heading South. She would’ve respected it. She would’ve remained my friend.” She hadn’t meant to say all of that aloud. 

“Well,” she scoffed, “I’m perfectly glad that that Sansa if dead and buried. If she would accept a heartless traitor back into her life for some honeyed words, she deserved all she got.”

Margaery flared her nostrils.  _ It’s out now, there’s no turning back. “ _ You are obsessed with calling me traitor but you know I would never do anything to bring you any harm. I know me leaving upset you but I never expected it to blind you as it did.”

“Any person, blind or not, could see you for what you were. You used me for a throne and discarded me when the chance arose.”

“Are you so stuck in your own -” she paused, remembering herself, “- I did not leave just because I wanted the bloody throne. I wanted exactly what you wanted: peace! I tried telling you but you wouldn’t listen. I looked up to you, Sansa. We were sisters but we were more than that as well. I knew you were strong when I saw you in the Red Keep, your head still on despite everything. Then when you got me out of there, I knew I had to stay with you. You were two years younger than me, and I was still a child back then, you had no idea what you were doing, could barely hold a weapon but you still charged into the unknown like a knight. That’s why I left Highgarden to be with you. That’s why I stuck by your side and that’s why I came south, when I thought I could do something for you.” 

Sansa’s face had flushed a hot pink. Against her auburn hair, she was nearly entirely red. For a moment, she didn’t say a thing, though her eyes darted around as she took it in. 

“You think because you did one thing for me, that I would forgive you for everything else? You should be a pile of ashes now, and you would be, if I hadn’t convinced Daenerys to let me hear you out first.” The fury soon returned to the thrashing ocean of her eyes. 

Margaery faltered. “Daenerys wants me dead?”

Now the Queen in the North laughed thickly, dryly. “Why wouldn’t she want you dead? You showed her the same kindness.”

_ The same kindness? Why is she speaking like I’m supposed to know what she means?  _

“You think I want her dead?” She asked, with a slight waver in her voice.

“Well, you don’t tend to send assassins after someone to wish them a happy name day.”

_ Assassins? Gods, what has she been told? _

“Assassins? All I know is that Daenerys left the city in a hurry with Tyrion, I don’t know about assassins.” She tried her best to smile but even that was proving difficult. 

“In the marketplace. Three men surrounded  her, said they were acting for the true ruler of Westeros. Shame they couldn’t say anymore, after they struck themselves dead.” She brought her hands forward and looked down into them. “I was surprised though; didn’t think you were the type.”

“Because I’m not. I had just won over her, why would I seek to kill Daenerys too? We spoke briefly and I can’t say I was her greatest supporter but that doesn’t mean I’d ever want her dead.” She reached forward and grabbed Sansa’s hand. Though she resisted, she managed to pull her around and meet her eyes directly. “Do you think me stupid enough to send assassins after Daenerys Targaryen? The woman with two dragons?”

“Only one, really.”

“I have no doubt that if I did anything to hurt its mother, that Dragon would force itself into the air and make me its meal in a heartbeat. Sansa, you know me. However much you think I meant to hurt  you, you know me. You know that’s not who I am.”

Sansa raised her eyebrow. “You’d never seek to kill her, even if you thought she was a threat?” There was a touch of derision in the question. 

“I never said that.” She smirked. “But I’d be smarter about it. Catspaws in the marketplace? I’m a Queen with a whole arsenal within reach. If I were to have the Dragon killed, I’d avoided the fire and fangs completely. I’d do as my grandmother would’ve.”

“Poison”’ Margaery could see the memory flashing before Sansa’s eyes. The black hairnet with their tiny poisoned stones. It was many lifetimes ago, but in that moment, it was happening right before them. She blinked and shook her head, breaking her trance. Sansa ripped her hands free and took a step back. “How could I trust you? You were made for deceit. You lie just as easy as you don’t. You smile that little smile and everyone thinks you’re so pure and perfect but I know you aren’t I know-”

“You’re wrong, Sansa.” She pressed, dropping her tone. “It might hurt to admit it, but you’re wrong.”

“No!”

“Actually, sister, this time you are.”

In perfect unison, both women's’ heads snapped around at once. Their gaze fell of the edge of the small clearing, where a well-built young woman pushed a wooden contraption towards them, before stepping aside and collapsing onto a bench. They regarded her quickly, attention instead drawn to the lithe figure seated before them, his face fixed in a knowing grin. 

“Bran?” Sansa mumbled, at first in disbelief, then again as she stepped forward and threw her arms around her brother’s shoulders. When she drew away, Margaery could only nod, struck silent. 

“You looked beautiful on your wedding day.” He spoke softly to his sister, more like a kindly old man than a younger brother. 

“Thank you.” Sansa looked down, sheepish for a moment. Then, as she recalled the incidence of his arrival, she straightened her face. “What do you mean I’m wrong?”

“Margaery didn’t send the assassins after Daenerys, Stannis did. Before he sailed, he left some men behind, hoping I suppose, that they’d do the job and he’d have one less enemy to face.”

“And one less dragon”’ Margaery added. She did not need to greet the Stark boy, he’d been travelling with her since the city, but his appearance and composure necessitated her a few moments to remind herself of where she was. 

“Precisely.” 

Sansa looked between the two of them, her face struck in a  permanent look of disbelief. She took a moment to think through her words. 

“Where have you been? What are you doing here? Have you seen Arya?”

He raised a hand and she dropped to her knees to take it. Margaery watched them both, remaining on her feet. 

“I’ll get to it all,” he assured with a brief smile. “I joined Margaery’s host to head North, I had hoped to get to you in King’s Landing, but you left before we got there.” 

Sansa frowned. “You told me to go, you spoke through a page. That was you, yes?”

“It was. I sent him when I  realised we wouldn’t get to you in time.” 

Meera Reed sat slightly forward and explained, “he had a vision beyond the wall, we travelled South as soon as we could, got passage all the way to Old Town. Then there was a storm and we got delayed.”

“I tried to reach you to explain after you’d left, but the distance was too great, and once you’d set sail, it was even harder. By the time I was close enough to speak to you, you knew everything I did.”

“What about Arya, where’s she?” 

“Clearing the way. The last I saw her, she on her way to Moat Cailin from White Harbour.” He shrugged. “I’m sure we’ll see her soon enough.”

The Queen in the North’s shoulders relaxed and she sat back on her heels. Margaery felt her own pent up tension seep away, though she hadn’t been aware she had been worrying about the Stark princess so much. 

“Thank you, brother.” Sansa breathed at last. “And you Meera.”

“Anything to actually experience summer.” Lady Reed stretched out her long limbs, basking in the light of the sun. 

Something occurred to Margaery.  _ Bran said wedding, which wedding did he mean?  _

“You said you saw Sansa in a wedding gown, do you mean in King’s Landing?” That didn’t make sense to her. That had been years ago and Bran had definitely seen his sister since to pay the compliment. 

Now Sansa turned around, eyes coursing over her as if just remembering she was still standing there. There was moment of doubt, of suspicion and all the coarseness the Northern Queen could release. Then she softened and pushed herself to her feet. 

“Me and Tyrion-” She gestured to the tree still standing before them. 

Margaery stepped forward. “You married again? The last thing I knew, you were settled on remaining annulled.” 

“Well,” she smirked, “things change.”

Margaery took her hands. “Tell me all,  _ please _ .” 

Sansa stiffened at her touch. The reluctance lingered within her. The deep mistrust that had been allowed to fester for years. Margaery knew there was little to be done about it. She’d spoken her truths, now it was Sansa’s turn to come to terms with them. She squeezed her hands, softly. 

“Alright...” 

Tyrion passed the final crate of books towards a squire awaiting him at the door. There was something odd about emptying his childhood, and now adulthood, rooms of most of their contents. He’d pawed through his oldest, most familiar tomes, packed away pages of drawings and designs, wrapped up his rings individually in tiny bundles of cloth. Sansa had taken mere moments to pack; she had barely anything to her name, bar the gown she had worn when she arrived at the Rock, and the small bag of possessions she’d managed to cling onto since her ship was carved in two. With his permission, she had selected a few of her favourite dresses that had once belonged to his mother, so she had more than two outfits to wear. She nearly tucked away her crown and her few jewels, wearing a majority of them, and made her way to the courtyard to oversee the wagons and horses that would be assembling by then. 

She asked to stay and help him, but there was no need. He spent most of the time picking through his old things, recalling memories he’d thought long lost and setting them carefully in boxes with the rest of his things. It was one of the few times in which he’s actually had the chance to pack – every other time he’d fled without so much as a moment to spare and save a book or a good doublet. Now he had the chance, he took his time unpicking his life at  Casterly Rock. 

When the last crate was taken from him, his arms felt strangely empty.  _ This is it.  _ The room was almost stripped entirely bare. The beds had been left in their Lannister red and gold, there was no place for those colours in the North, and only a few old shirts sat in the wardrobe and a few books he didn’t care for were left on his shelves. It was no longer the room he’d grown up in. It wasn’t even the one he’d shared with Sansa, his wife. It existed to him as a painting, even if the paint was still drying, simply a single shot of a life once lived. 

He took a deep breath and nodded his head.  _ Gods, I didn’t even like it here. Now isn’t the time to actually feel bad about leaving.  _

He found the others in the courtyard, watching the last few boxes loaded onto the wagons. Feet and horse-hooves clattered against the cobblestones as all ran here and there to finalise arrangements. Sansa was in deep conversation with Daenerys, so he made a line for his brother instead, patting the flank of his mare. 

“How fares the aunt?” said Jaime. He was dressed lightly and simply for riding. He looked far better out of his usual heavy armour than in it. 

Tyrion thought to their Aunt Genna, their father’s surviving sister who’d been married away to a Frey but had never lost her connection to the Rock. With Tywin’s sons heading North, Kevan’s sons dead and Genna’s boy killed in the Frey massacre, she was the last remaining claimant to the Rock. There had been Ser Damon, their mother’s brother, and his issue, but they’d fled when Cersei was brought down. Tyrion didn’t believe they’d show their hides any time soon. He’d always quite liked his aunt and he even didn’t hate her squirmy Frey husband. 

“She has plans, I say she can do as she wishes.” He shrugged. He would be glad to see his home returned to the glory it once held in the history books, but if she drove it to the ground, he wouldn’t shed a tear. 

“She’s had plans for this place ever she was a child. Never one to sit back and let father take complete control.” Jaime, still effortlessly, lifted himself into the saddle. 

“Which is why he had her married off as soon as he could.” A call went up that the wagons were ready to join the rest of the train itching to head North. Both brothers gazed up at the high towers before them. 

“Think you’ll come back?” Tyrion chimed, still reluctant to find his horse. 

Jaime, however, was wrapping his reins around his wrists. “Perhaps,” he shrugged, “depends where she wants to go.” With his eyes, he indicated Ser Brienne, also mounted. 

“Gods, if father could see you now.” Tyrion chuckled.  _ Then again, I’m not one to mock others for love.  _ He shook his head. “I’ll be glad to see the back of it, all of it.”

“And now to freeze our balls off in the North.”

Tyrion smiled. “You, know, I quite look forward to it – not freezing my balls off- I always liked the thick fur coats, most becoming.”

“Are you planning on coming or will you be lamenting all day?” A deep chestnut mare approached them. Sat on top, Sansa look down them both with a frown. “I don’t want to lose the light.” 

“ _ Yes _ , little brother.” Jaime raised an iron finger to him, “do as she says.” 

Tyrion scowled. 

Tyrion Lannister pulled sharply on his horse’s reins and wheeled himself around. The Rock stood before him, tall and proud – the Lion in the West.  Lannisport sat comfortably, tucked in below the cliffs, a port returned to life after months of stillness during the siege. He picked out the window in one tower that he was certain had been his – then traced along to find his brother’s, his sister’s and lastly, his parents’. 

Someone was stood in the window. He was too far away to see in any detail, but, if he squinted, he caught sight of a pale cream dress, an arm raised in a wave and loose blond ringlets falling on bare shoulders. He had no memory of his mother, but he’d gazed at her portrait long enough to recognise her looking back at him. 

He raised a hand to her and nodded his head.  _ Goodbye mother.  _

He  rejoined the rest of the riders and quickly dabbed at his eye, looking only ahead and never behind. Yet still, a single word, spoken sweetly like part of a song, caught on the wind and reached his ears. 

_ Goodbye.  _


	16. The Final Flight

“It’s good to see you out of chains once more, Uncle.” 

Edmure Tully stood with one arm around his newly reunited wife and the other resting on his firstborn’s head. He appeared older that Sansa remembered, but she didn’t mention it.  _ The man has just escaped imprisonment, no need to mention the darkness of his eyes.  _

_ “ _ You have my gratitude, for opening your gates to my Roslin and Hoster, and for Stannis. That wretched, conniving-”

“My dear,” Roslin raised a hand to cut him off, “the Queens have travelled long to get us back here, let us sit.”

Edmure pressed his lips together and nodded. “Of course.” The Lord of the  Riverlands extended his arms and lead them further into the keep. Riverrun was nearly completely unfamiliar to Sansa, and most of those following behind, so they took their time gazing upwards, at every painting and banner on the dark stone walls. She could remember taking the time to pay her grandfather and uncle a visit with her mother, but those trips had been long ago, and were nothing but blinking images in her memories. Instead of trying to grasp hold of those times, she looked further back, into the memories passed on to her through the many stories her mother had shared. 

Sansa could see her mother skidding down each corridor, she pictured Catelyn Tully admiring the images of her ancestors, she saw her and Lysa playing games with a young Petyr Baelish by the Trident. Those days came before any hardship or pain and now, Sansa hoped, she could return to that peace long thought impossible. 

Edmure had brought them to his solar, where a young fire was just blossoming in the hearth, and a circle of heavy chairs had been set around it. Lord Tully selected him own, wife and child settling with him, and the rest arranged themselves close by. 

The Queen in the North clapped her hands together and beamed towards the Tully trio. “It is not I whom you should be grateful to, Uncle. Tyrion opened the Rock to them, and to Robin too.” 

With careful restraint,  Edmure’s lips twitched into a smile and he nodded his head. 

Rooms in Riverrun were offered to them for the night, but Sansa had to reject the promise of featherbed and warm fires; her cousin had been more than clear he was not keen on any more delay. She understood perfectly.  _ I’m returning home to Winterfell, which, as far as I know, will be as I left it. He is returning to a keep with a traitor still at the helm.  _ There had been no reports that Ser Harrold had fled after ceding the Eeyrie without a drop of blood spilt. It was understood that Lady Shireen was still in the Vale too, though no one could be certain she would remain that way. Sansa couldn’t help but anticipate their meeting with intrigue. The young girl had followed her father in his rebellion, but it was still to be known whether she supported him. She didn’t expect a warm reception either way, execution was hard to so easily forgive.  _ As I know all too well.  _ But if Shireen was still there, there was at least still hope that revenge was not on the cards. 

_ I have had quite enough of that to last a lifetime.  _

They returned to their camp and stole a few hours of rest before setting off once more. Sansa rode ahead in the van, flanked by Brienne and Jaime, with Margaery and her personal retinue to their side. Tyrion spent his time in Bran’s wheelhouse and every night Daenerys met them having flown with  Drogon and picked out a suitable space for them to make camp. They moved at a brisk pace, but they lingered long enough not to miss the beauty of their surroundings. Sansa’s travels had not yet brought her to the Vale with its interlocking mountains and valleys that appeared to stretch across leagues. Tyrion had told her his own tales of his time within the mountain clans and she half-hoped they might come across them so that she might be introduced. 

She didn’t have such luck. She supposed the several thousand men were enough to keep the mountain men and women away, though of course they meant no harm. When they drew within a day of the  Eyrie , Robin joined the van and did not cease accounting how he would handle Stannis’ men and, of course, his own heir, Harry. Sansa quickly reminded him that they’d agreed a pardon for many of the men with Margaery but that he was free to do as he liked with Harrold. Barely placated, the young Lord spent the rest of the day grumbling under his breath and riding slightly ahead. 

A smaller party broke off from the main host and was met at the Black Gates of the Eyrie by Ser Royce. He dropped down from the gate at double speed to greet his Lord, patting him hard on the back and muttering his thanks to the Gods. Their group was small, largely due to the great effort it took to make it up to the keep situated on its precipice which looked over most of the Vale. Robin and his knight led with hearty enthusiasm, and begrudgingly, Sansa followed behind, with only Brienne and Theon for company. They swapped their mounts at the first checkpoint in their climb for the weathered mules that climbed the goat’s track with well-practiced steps. At the second way-castle, Sky, the mules were swapped once more, for an even slighter breed, that took them up the final stint across the precarious incline. Sansa had never found herself troubled by heights; she didn’t share Bran’s natural aptitude for climbing, but neither did she fear looking over a great cliff, or out of the window of the highest room in a tower. Now, she knew she hadn’t ever experienced true height before – the kind that takes your breath away when you dare to glance downwards, the kind that thins the air and is covered by thick mists. When they at last reached the white stone towers of the keep itself, Sansa could not deny the flood of relief, or the tremble in her legs as she dropped onto the ground. 

With the climb behind them, Yohn Royce told them all he knew as they were lea through the many high-walled passages and halls of the Eyrie. He had been stationed at the gate when news reached him that the Baratheons were to be allowed in. Of course, being Commander of the Knights of the Vale, he had made his stance clear and refused the command. Those less loyal to their true Lord had obeyed Harrold’s orders and forced the gates open anyway, taking Royce prisoner and standing by as an influx of black and gold stags filled the hold like rats. 

“I took a few out, mind.” The knight nodded to himself firmly. It was hard to miss the obvious distaste that admitting his failure had brought him, but none walking with them were surprised. Bronze Yohn Royce was still a formidable man. He was the tallest of their company, broad of shoulder and strong of stance. Yet, the man was no longer a young, spirited knight with the energy of a colt. His age did not seem a burden to him, but even such a masterful fighter had to know that eventually, younger, fresher men would take his place. 

While Royce had been imprisoned – attempting escape daily – Shireen Baratheon had moved herself into the towers of the keep while her father continued South. Only when news of Stannis’ death did the men stand against their orders and turn on the  Baratheons still in the hold. It had taken hours to collect them in the sky cells, and just a few minutes more to put Harrold and Shireen both under lock and key. 

As he finished the story, their small group climbed the last step into the top of one of the towers. Two doors, perfectly alike in every way, faced them. 

“They’ve been kept apart.” He explained, with a throwaway gesture. 

“Why?” Sansa removed her fur-lined gloves and tucked them into her sword-belt. 

Royce opened his mouth to explain, then thought better of it. “You’ll see,” he decided upon eventually.

With a quizzical glance, she nodded her thanks to him, and entered the first room. 

“Oh Sansa! My dear, my sweet, my love!” Ser Harrold was seated alone in the small tower room, dressed in clothes several days old and sipping from a cracked tankard. Before him sat the remnants of his meals – a bowl of brown and oats. 

She raised a hand to him, allowing the green stone at her finger to catch the sunlight. “You shall refer to me as ‘your grace’ and bow to your Lord as well. It is the least he deserves from you.” Robin had entered silently and stood to the side of the room with his hands folded before him. It had taken a lot to convince him to let her speak first. 

“Your Grace.” He corrected, stepping out from behind his table and falling to one knee. He dropped his head to his Lord then reached a hand forward towards her. “You’ve come to take me back to Winterfell?” 

She declined his hand with a frown. There was nothing in the world that would convince her to touch it. It wasn’t unclean – Harrold was a knight not a plague-infested pauper – yet it felt like touching him would be some kind of treason in itself. 

“I’ve come for no such thing. Your fate lies in the hands of Lord Arryn; you have wronged him, not I.”

He shuffled forward on his knees. “But you have spoken with him? Ordered him to be merciful?” 

“Merciful?” She scoffed. “The last traitor I spoke with, I had burned alive. I am through with mercy.” 

Harrold looked between them both, mouth slightly agape. “Traitor? No. That’s they kept saying, but it’s not true. That’s why they locked me up here like some animal whilst they laud themselves for their victory.” He shook his head. “I would never betray the Vale, or you, my love.”

She clenched her teeth, preparing to launch a tirade of insults in his direction. 

“Did the Baratheon men just arrive within our walls by chance then?” Robin saved her by stepping forward and addressing the still knelt knight. He gazed up in his Lord’s eyes, eager to please, to explain himself.

“It was part of the plan!” He was almost giddy. “Stannis’ men arrived, and I knew we had to do something to stop him. It was Royce who suggested we take his daughter, the Princess. He knew the old Lord would bargain the world for her.” 

Sansa sighed. “You couldn’t just pluck her from the camps?” 

“We tried; you can ask the men if you wish. She was too well-guarded. Then well-”

“Get on with it.” Robin toed him with the end of his boot. 

“It was my plan. We let Stannis in, take his daughter captive up here, and force his men to retreat back where they came from. I even planned to start cutting up her hair or, her fingers, or maybe take an eye-”

She pressed her lips together a moment. “But none of that happened. Shireen walked these halls freely and the Eyrie remained taken. She was holding you hostage, not the other way around.” 

Now the young knight found himself suddenly interested in the stone floor before him, too engrossed to speak. Sansa released another infuriated breath and turned to her cousin. “He was a fool, do with him as you please.”

“Sansa!” His voice trembled. “You cannot dismiss me, let him do ‘as he pleases’. You are to take me as your husband. Have him pardon me and the we can put this all behind us.”

She returned her gaze to him, crumpled on the floor, and felt bile rising in her throat.  _ He looks almost pleased. He thinks he has found his way to safety. He could not be more wrong. _

_ “ _ My husband? I would not take you for a husband in a thousand lifetimes! Look at you! You cannot even admit that you failed. It is pathetic.” If she were Arya, she would’ve had the will to spit upon him then. 

Harrold’s face had turned a beetroot red, and, fuelled by sudden energy, he scrambled his feet to stand at her height. 

“You have a duty to me. You made promises to me. I have made my mistakes, but you should still honour that, and as a Queen no less.” 

“Do not speak, ser,” she met him, toe to toe, “it will only make this worse for us all.” She shook her head and carefully rested her hand on the pommel of her dagger. “I never made any promises to you, though you told everyone I did. I owe you nothing at all. No kindness, no mercy, and certainly not my hand.” 

Harrold did not shrink back, but he didn’t offer a counter either. 

“What went wrong with the Lady? She was in the keep, freely. What stopped you from blockading her in her rooms and having her guards killed.” Robin intercepted, perhaps fearing he was about to lose his chance at justice. 

_ I would like to know the answer to his question, too. She was a prize within his grasp, practically dancing in his hands, I’m sure. In what world would he let her go along unhindered while sell-swords fill the hold. I knew him to be a bore, but never a fool. Knights like him tend to show more resolve. Unless of course- _

Sansa laughed, loudly and heartily, as the picture spread out before her. It was only a hunch she had, but it was too good to ignore. 

“You fell for little princess, didn’t you?” She began when she had calmed herself. “I’ve seen her, she had the strength of her lineage, but with a  femineity I’m sure you couldn’t resist.”

“I-”

She held up a hand. “No need to deny it, I can see it in your eyes.” That was true, as soon as she’d spoken, Harry’s eyes had grown wider, more strained as his cheeks turned a rosy hue. “The pretty princess wandered in and you forgot all about your plans. How could you, a big strong knight, keep the lovely maiden prisoner? Tell me that I’m wrong, ser. Say it for me.”

“I-I will not.” He stammered. 

“The separate rooms?” She smiled. Another piece clicked together. “So, you fell for her but your feelings are not returned? I’m sure she’d sooner see your head off then move within a foot of you.” 

“That’s not true.” He mumbled, back towards the floor. 

“It isn’t? Maybe I should go an ask the Lady herself, hear her tale.” She turned towards the door. She heard the knight stumble backwards into the table, then jump forward, remembering something. 

“You won’t hurt her? She doesn’t deserve to be punished. She’s-”

“Neither of us have any intention of hurting Lady Shireen.” Sansa assured, with a smile. “But I cannot say the same for you. I’ll leave you with Lord Arryn for now, but I’ll be seeing you later. My cousin tells me seeing a man fly is rather soothing for the soul.”

Shireen Baratheon stood to attention when the door swung open. She was dressed in borrowed, but well-fitting clothing, her hair pined back by her Florent ears and her crystalline blue eyes set ahead and unrelenting. 

Having left Robin to deal with Harrold, Sansa closed the door softly behind her and met the girl’s stare with a crinkle of her eyes.  _ She is not a girl, she’s Arya’s age and I’m certain she’s been through just as much.  _ She said nothing, but swept her skirts beneath her as she dropped down into a cushioned chair. She gestured, and Shireen hesitantly took a second chair, close to the window that overlooked most of the Vale, all the way into the fogged-over mountains. 

Sansa cleared her throat gently and began. “You know about your father?” She kept her voice soft and balanced. 

Shireen simply nodded, keeping her thin lips pressed tightly together. 

“It did not happen as I intended. There was supposed to be a trial.” 

“I heard he died by  dragonfire \- that you ordered it be done.”

For a moment Sansa closed her eyes.  _ How long ago was I plotting against the people that had my father killed? I had Stannis killed with as much kindness as Joffrey dealt with Eddard Stark, and now I stand in front of her, offering some false sympathy? Gods.  _

“That is how it happened. I offered him a chance to stand down and go with Margaery Tyrell to be heard in King’s Landing. I offered him mercy, but he made that impossible.’ She sighed, “he killed Ser Davos, Lord Seaworth, as if to spite me. I-” She trailed off; it was still a strange thing to admit. 

Now Shireen narrowed her gaze, mouth hanging slightly open. Then, all at once, she clenched her jaw and shook her head. “I don’t believe you. My father considered Davos as his closest ally. He knew I cared for him, he would never-”

Sansa sat slightly forward. “Ser Davos went as an emissary, to deliver my terms of surrender. Your father took that as a betrayal, but in truth, he offered himself to go, thought he could convince him. I wish it wasn’t true, for your sake and for mine, but it happened, and I could no longer offer mercy when Stannis had thrown it in my face.” 

The young Baratheon’s eyes glistened with brimming tears. She quickly blinked them away and composed herself. “Davos was my friend.” She spoke softly, a tremor in her voice. 

“He was a friend to many, that he will be remembered for. My brother was especially fond of him, and I have welcomed his wisdom many times. He was a good man too. He loved his family, his wife and sons, and all others that came his way. He only with us to see the Manderlys, his friends-” Now Sansa found herself choking out her words.  _ Has it taken so long for the truth to fall upon me? It’s too easy to forget on the road, but now I’m sat down-  _ She fought the urge to stand and pace the room.

“What now?” After a period of quiet, Shireen finally straightened herself and forced out her question. The accusation had dropped from her tone and her voice had become small.  _ At least she doesn’t seem set on getting revenge at this very moment.  _ Sansa crossed her hands on her lap. 

“I've spoken with Marga- Queen Margaery. I once told Lord Ned Umber and Lady Alys  Karstark that I could not judge them based on their father’s decisions, my view still stands. I do not know the role you played in your father’s treachery, nor do I think it would be possible to ever completely know. Margaery wanted to question every man and woman who could’ve seen, but I offered her an alternative.” 

Shireen raised a brow. “You won’t kill me? I would kill me, if I was in your place.”

Sansa laughed gently. “Aye, perhaps, but the last thing your father said to me was a request to keep you safe. Even if I wanted you dead, I would not deny him that final wish.” 

Shireen’s eyes had grown wide, allowing the tears to at last slip down her pale skin. She sat back slightly in her chair and fiddled with the end of her sleeve. “So, what?”

“If it weren’t for your father, being a noble lady of a Southern house, you would’ve spent time in the Southern courts. I agreed with Margaery that you would be safe there, surrounded by men and women your age and kept under the Queen’s gaze. My time in the Red Keep was forced and I will not sit and preach its virtues, but the women there of their own will spent their days in good company, learning the ways of court and fawning over young knights.” Sansa sighed. “You have been at war too long; you deserve the peace.”  _ We all do.  _

_ “ _ That sounds – nice.” Shireen nodded slowly. She’d never had the chance to attend court in King’s Landing, to go  falconing or watch a tourney. She was a princess without any of the perks. A prized horse kept out of sight. “And after that?”

“I’ve spoken with Gendry too, your cousin. The Stormlands have fallen to him, but you are welcome to join him there when you tire of court. You can stay with him at Storm’s End, or he’ll find you a suitable marriage if you prefer. You’re still a Baratheon, and I won’t deny you that, no one will.” 

“You are very kind, your Grace. I don’t understand it.” Shireen blinked away the last of her tears and gazed up with slightly bloodshot eyes. 

“I am simply doing what my father would do – he valued justice and honour over all else. You’ve given me no reason to treat you harshly but-” her voice hardened and she narrowed her gaze, “if you do mean Margaery, or Gendry, or anyone harm, that kindness will disappear. I’m giving you the chance to start anew, to live the life you were supposed to. If you truly want what your father wanted, go ahead and seek it, but you will find no sympathy from myself, or Gendry, or Margaery, if you do. Do you understand now?” 

Shireen nodded once more. “I do.” 

“Good.” Sansa stood, straightening out her skirts and rolling her shoulders back. “Now, how do you feel about watching Ser Harrold fly?”

They reached Moat Cailin in good time, finding the Twins abandoned by Baratheon forces and the road beyond only frequented by a few weary travellers, just being able to pass back into the south. They received word of Arya Stark and the Northern army from a merchant passing them day from the causeway and every man and woman sighed to see the Stark banners fluttering in the afternoon breeze. 

Tyrion Lannister watched on with an unfaltering smile as his wife embraced her departed sister before allowing her to be greeted by Gendry, who had stood aside patiently, waiting his turn. Even Bran, leaving his wheelhouse for a rare excursion, beamed to see what remained of his family reunited again. 

They were welcomed into the keep that barred the way North by lines of Stark, Umber, Glover and  Karstark forces who bowed their heads to their Queen and mumbled between themselves at the others she had brought along with her. Margaery and Daenerys walked the road side by side, as if they were age-old friends, and other notable Lords and Ladies followed in turn. They turned out of sight of the soldiers and into a dimly lit but sizable chamber where food and wine had already been laid out across a large, weathered oak table. The travellers, just now realising how long ago their morning food had been, sat themselves at the table and filled their plates and goblets without a word. At last, when stomachs had been satisfied, eyes looked towards the young Stark Princess and she began her tale. 

Tyrion was not listening, not entirely at least. What she spoke of, travelling to Winterfell then back and beating off Baratheon forces at White Harbour and Moat Cailin was interesting enough, but his attention had been drawn across the room, to another who had seated herself at a window and was sipping at a cup of warm mulled wine. 

He could tell Daenerys wasn’t really in the room with them, she was elsewhere, sailing across the sky with  Drogon or walking the expansive lands of Essos once more. Her gazed was fixed on the marshes and bogland that eventually gave out to the sea and to the distant horizon. She brought her cup to his lips without looking and pressed them back together in her concentration. 

“-there’s fifty of them in the cells underground, some fled but I sent men to pick them off.” Arya beamed to the company which hung on each and every word. “But I suppose your adventures were far more interesting.” 

Tyrion turned back towards the group, as if he’d been listening all along. 

“I spent most of the time under siege.” Sansa shook her head with a chuckle. “Bran and Gendry have travelled far more than me.”

“And all for the bloody Rock.” He raised his cup and smirked. “You’d think it was  _ actually  _ worth more than the stones it’s built on.” 

“You’ll have father rolling in his grave for that.” Jaime quipped with mock warning in his tone.

“You mean harbouring and then marrying a Stark didn’t do it? And you forsaking your vows for a knight?” He returned quickly, with a wink. 

“Married?” Arya nearly choked on her wine. She looked between sister and now good-brother with a  scrutinising eye. 

Tyrion glanced outside, the light was already lost to them and he was beginning to feel the pangs for a featherbed.  Still, he leaned in towards the she-wolf and began. 

_ It’s going to be a long night.  _

Tyrion rose early and joined with the others already missing their featherbeds as they broke their fast in the main hall. It had been decided the night before that they would set off North quickly, Sansa was restless to return, and even he had to admit that the pull towards Winterfell grew stronger by the day. While men prepared themselves each side of the causeway, reading horses and wagons, they filled themselves with the generous spread of anything fried he could think of. They washed the near-feast down with honeyed wine and rose at once. 

In under an hour the men were ready and they found themselves by the horses, eager to leave and make the most of the light. The Queen Margaery approached them and clasped her hands together. 

“It’s been a pleasure seeing you all again.” She looked across their small assembled group and smiled softly. “It wasn’t under the best circumstances but-”

“But we can leave on better terms.” He nodded towards his wife who took his meaning and stepped forward to take her old friend’s hands and speak in hushed tones that even he could not be privy to. Instead, his eyes wandered to the Kraken queen who slapped her brother on the arm and laughed at some jape. He stepped away from the main group and towards them. 

“You’re leaving us?” He knew she was, but he still felt the need to ask. 

“Aye, my men are whining to me about the ships and,” she smirked, “maybe I miss the old islands.” 

He  scoffed, he’d only heard the Greyjoy siblings speak of their hatred of the Iron Islands of their family. “You’ll be going there straight away then, I can assume?” 

She narrowed her eyes as if to ask what he knew, but only smiled simply in return. Her look had answered his question, though he stayed just to watch her squirm. 

“I will.” She shot back, deflecting away from the smirk now plastered on Theon’s face. “The Queen has offered to escort my men back to the coast.” 

“Do you need an escort? I thought  Ironborn didn’t need anything from the Southerners or the  Northeners alike.”  _ It’s not an escort you’re seeking.  _

_ “ _ Quieten down or I’ll make your wife a widow of the shortest marriage in Westeros.” Her hand rested on the pommel of her dirk and he held up his hands in surrender. Still, he couldn’t help the slight chuckle escape from his lips as he returned back to the remainder of the group, Margaery taking a step back as horses were mounted and a  last few goodbyes were uttered. Tyrion located the wheelhouse and made to join Bran Stark within its safe confines. 

“Tyrion?” A voice called out to him before his could reach the door. He spun round on his heel to find Daenerys before him and Sansa at her side. He shot his wife a questioning look but she returned only a shrug. With a nod of his head, he joined them and followed as the last dragon led them away from the Northern host to the top of a bank of grass where  Drogon was curled around a charred goat. 

“Is everything alright?” Sansa began, attempting a smile. 

“It is.” Dany glanced towards her dragon, still fascinated with his meal, then turned back towards them. “I won’t be travelling with you anymore. I have decided.”

“Decided?” He laughed gently. “Where do you intend to go?”  _ I knew this was coming. Daenerys can’t stay with us at Winterfell and I doubt she feels she has a place in the South. Her only home is Dragonstone, and no one could call that welcoming, or comfortable, in the least.  _

_ “ _ East.” She spoke with certainty. Now he understood what she’d been thinking about the night before. 

“You’ve just returned from the east.” Sansa tilted her head. She, it seemed, had yet to consider the Dragon’s unclear future. “What do you want there?”

“Valyria.” She smiled. “Old Valyria, where Aegon flew from before he conquered Westeros.”

That hadn’t been quite what he was expecting. 

“I’ve seen Valyria, it’s wasteland and ruins. Nobody lives there, bar the grey-men.” Tyrion tried to picture Daenerys landing, adorned in her fine gowns and jewels, in the  destitute hills that had once been the seat of Targaryen might. 

“You’re right. But I’ve been there too. It’s a ruin now, but walls can be rebuilt. There’s no shortage of people on the streets either, they'd be happy to help.”

“I don’t understand.” He managed, shaking his head. “You could take any city, anywhere.”

Daenerys rested her hand on his shoulder. “You once told me that the people in the East would never accept me as their Queen as long as I’m a Targaryen. But the people here cannot accept me as their Queen either, as I  _ am  _ a Targaryen, a name they thought would stay in the past.  Valyria is my home though, I felt it when I saw it and I feel it more than ever now. I did what I came here to do, though I did not know it until now, but I won’t stop and sit comfortably in someone’s keep, or waste away at Dragonstone.”

“I understand.” Sansa piped up, which he was glad for, as he had lost the ability to speak. “Valyria will be your own, as Winterfell is mine.” Her eyes dropped to Daenerys hip. “Jon would’ve agreed too, he wanted to help people, like the free folk. He’d want you to help the people over there as well.” 

“Thank you, Sansa.” Daenerys’ voice was an inch from cracking, but she maintained her composure and looked back to him. “I will never forget all you’ve done for me, Tyrion. You deserve every happiness, both of you.” 

“Wait-” he  remembered , “what about  Missandei , you can’t be leaving her behind?”

“I’m not.” Dany indicated the translator in question, who had not mounted a horse and was stood alongside Asha Greyjoy. “ Greyworm went in search for me when I vanished, but Margaery received a letter on the journey North that his ship had returned to the Blackwater. She’s going south with them to see him again, then she’s free to go where she pleases. I’ve told her they can join me if they want. I wish she could come with me now but-” 

Tyrion wondered how he’d missed it before, Missandei of  Narth , his own Hand, was practically glowing in excitement. She had a smile for every face and spoke eagerly to the Kraken Queen though trying to remain calm. He only wondered why she hadn’t told him herself. 

“She wanted to tell you.” Daenerys read his thoughts as he looked towards his once-companion with a slight frown. “But she didn’t want to spoil your happiness. That’s what she says. I think she couldn’t face  it; she thinks very highly of you.” 

“And I think very highly of her.” He muttered before looking up. “And of you. When I joined you, I was certain you were the one to save us all. In a way you did, but I’m only sorry you couldn’t-”

“Don’t be sorry.” Daenerys’ voice was stern. “I was born to be Queen, and I will be. But just not here. Just not now.” She squeezed his shoulder once more and straightened up to face them both. “Thank you. We  _ will  _ see eachother again.” 

_ Will we?  _ He wondered.  _ How could we get away from Winterfell long enough for a venture all the way to Valyria and then return? Even now, Winterfell has been lacking in Starks for too long. With Bran beyond the wall and Arya at Storm’s End, when will we get our chance to escape?  _ He didn’t wish to think of that. Winterfell was no prison, and even if it was, he got to spend his term there with the people he loved. Then again, it was a kind of sentence, one Sansa had already accepted when the crown was lowered onto her brow.  _ And I agreed as well when I said my vows.  _

_ “ _ We will.” Sansa lied, unconvincingly as ever. Daenerys didn’t refute  it; she dropped her head to them and swept around and away towards her dragon still playing with his bones.  _ Believing the lie is better than accepting the truth. _

Calls rose behind them- it was time for her to take to the saddle once more and for him to take his place on the cushioned seats of the wheelhouse. He’d agreed to ride alongside her further along, when they passed towns and near keeps, but for now his legs longed for the rest. Sansa looked to him, nodded and they strode back towards the main host, stopping just before their paths diverged for her to lean down, press her lips softly and briefly against his and then make towards her mount. He returned to the wheelhouse and the door was held open, waiting for him. 

A shriek rattled through the sky and every head raised upwards. Tyrion peeled back the curtains, Sansa shielded her eyes from the sun, and all searched the clouds for the flash of a wing or a puff of smoke. 

But no. By the time they looked, the blue above was as empty and still as the summer sea. The dragon had taken its flight. Daenerys Targaryen was gone. 


	17. The Kiss

Asha Greyjoy propped herself up on her elbow and rested on her side. She cast her eyes across the tanned skin of Margaery Tyrell, hugging ever curve of her figure and adorned with a few visible scars that trailed from her shoulders down her back. Asha had spent time drawing her hands along the red lines, planting kisses along each imperfection, ending up in the crook of her neck to nip at the tender skin. She’d had yet to find a single inch of skin of the Rose’s body that she couldn’t praise and now she sat, admiring it once more. 

“What?” Margaery asked somewhat dreamily. Her eyelids were drooping heavily and her breathing was soft and slow. “You’re staring.”

“Savouring the view.” The Kraken fell heavily onto her back, looking up into the canopy of the tent rising above them 

“You don’t have to ‘savour’ anything.” Margaery drawled. “I’m still here.”

“Aye,” she frowned, “but you won’t be tomorrow. Then I have to go back to those fucking grey islands  where no woman could ever look like-” she swept her hand around, “- that.”

“Like what?” The Rose switched to her pretty high voice, the one that was perfect for charming the men. 

“You bloody know; all gold and small and wouldn’t rather salt a barrel of fish than sew a dress or I don’t know, bathe every once in a while.”

Margaery giggled to herself at the images that floated above them of the  Ironborn women. After a moment though, her mirth stopped and she turned on her side and met Asha’s gaze. 

“You don’t have to go back there. You know what I’ve offered.” 

_ Ah yes, your offer. The chance to abandon my people in order to live as your harlot in the Red Keep. Your shame, your plaything.  _ The thought of it turned Asha’s stomach. 

“And I’ve told you exactly what I think of your  _ offer _ . My people chose me just as much as yours chose you. I have as many responsibilities to them as you do. It is simply the way it must be. Tomorrow I’ll set sail and you’ll continue South.” She reached forward and brushed a stray brown curl of hair out of Margaery’s eye. “You’ll get over it, love.”

Margaery pulled away, scowling. “It’s not fair, if two Queen’s cannot so as they please, why should anyone else? Have we not fought hard enough for their bloody lives?” She took a breath. “Come with me, Asha, come to the warmth of King’s Landing. There must be someone you can trust to take your place on Pyke. You would have all you’ve ever wished for with me.”

Asha crossed her arms over the furs that covered them. “As what, your whore?”

“Of course not!” She pushed herself up on her elbows, exposing the bare skin from her collarbone to navel. She did not have the idea to cover herself, there was nothing Asha hadn’t seen anymore. “I don’t know what you would be, but we’d think of something. Of course, I’d want you to be there as my – my wife.” She reached a hand forward and tenderly rested it on Asha’s cheek. 

She could only scoff. “It’s a nice thought, your grace, but it wouldn’t happen. You wouldn’t risk your precious crown.” She pressed her lips against Margaery’s thumb with a shake of the head and went to turn around. 

“I know it’s only a dream. I’ve heard enough about what they did to my brother. Tortured him. Plagued him in the streets. Imprisoned him and killed him-” she sounded like she meant to go on but her voice had cracked and Asha swung back around to catch hold of her hands before the sobs could break out. Margaery took a shaky breath and continued. “I want to change things, so that people like my Loras aren’t humiliated and murdered just for what happens in their  bedchambers. If you came with me to the city, we could start that change, force people to accept it and-”

“It’s not people that are the problem, love. Most couldn’t care less about who fucks who and where. You ever stepped foot in a brothel? There’re things in there most would consider taboo but men and men and women and women? Not among them. You want to make a change? Be prepared to cull every priest, every  septon and every monk you can find. Not to mention the  maesters too. They’re the problem. And they’re never going away.” 

“But I-” 

“It’s just the way it is. On the islands it’s a bit better. All sorts live together without much attention. I could have myself anyone and no one would bat an eye.” She shook her head. “But that’s whores, not wives. Now if we had some little cottage somewhere, where no Lord or Septon could bother us -”

“But we can’t.”

Asha nodded. “No, we can’t. This is how it has to be.  But, you know what. I promise, that the day that you and I could marry in that big-fucking Sept –what’s it called?”

“The Sept of Baelor, it’ll stand again in a few years.”

“Baelor, right. When we can marry in there without a disapproving look or a word against us, I’ll get on my ship and head South.” 

Margaery glanced upwards, her brown eyes still glistening. “You promise?” 

Asha chuckled lightly, leant in and closed the space between the two of them. Her hands rested on Margaery’s neck and waist, as her lips parted eagerly for the attention. Instead, she broke away. “I promise.” 

“You’ll come visit when you can though?” Margaery was slightly breathless from being caught unawares and her eyes were darker, even by the candlelight. 

“I don’t think I could turn you down.” Once more, Asha dropped down onto her back, pulling the Queen of the South down with her. “You’ve made every other woman look worse than a herd of cattle.”

Margaery settled herself into the crook of Asha’s neck and smirked. “Good.”

They remained that way in silence for  sometime ; Asha twiddled a strand of Margaery’s hair around her finger whilst Margaery retreated in deep thought.  _ Planning her revolution of an entire religion, probably. She has an endless supply of ambition. I’ll give her that. _

“It’s still not fair, people like Sansa and Tyrion get to live happily together. I think I deserve the same as her.” Margaery piped up after a while. 

“Yes...” Asha grinned. “But I’m sure we have a lot more fun than they do.” 

“We do?”

In answer, Asha eased Margaery off of her, jumped up and swung her leg over, pining the dainty Rose beneath her. She leaned in close, inhaling the sweet aroma of honeysuckle and lavender. 

“We do.” 

“How much of the future can you actually see?” Tyrion was beginning to tire of the long hours spent in the wheelhouse. He often longed to ride with the rest of the host instead, and found himself enjoying the days in which he did remain beside his wife while the people welcomed her return and celebrated her victory. Yet, he’d ridden all day the day before, and had only just made it from his tent to the wheelhouse that morning. They were just a few days from Winterfell now, any of the horses could ride at full pelt and make it by nightfall, but knowing this had made the days drag even longer. Finally, he decided to break the silence that had formed, comfortably, between him and the Stark boy. 

“Bits and pieces.” Bran shrugged. Beside him, Meera nodded in agreement. “The past is easy to navigate but the future is always uncertain, so I can only see possibilities and even they only present themselves when they want to be seen. Meera’s brother had a better hold on the future than I could dream of.” 

Meera smiled faintly at the mentioned of her brother,  Jojen Reed. Tyrion had never met the boy, but he’d fallen protecting Bran and himself had been a ‘green seer’. Tyrion knew very little about what that actually meant, he’d believed it all to be myth until he’d met Sansa’s brother himself, so now bubbled with curiousity. 

“Is it like a dream, or a vision happening now?” He took a sip of his honeyed wine and sat back in his seat. 

“I see things in dreams mostly, or if I choose to look backwards, I can do that anytime. The future doesn’t follow rules, I cannot control that.” 

He nodded. “So, what have you seen about the future so far, anything interesting?” Bran did not speak for a moment, and Meera Reed paled. He looked between them both, furrowing his brow. “What?”

“It is better not to try and unpick what I have seen. As I said, nothing is set in stone. Any little thing could change everything.” 

“But you  _ have  _ seen something,” Tyrion pressed, “good or bad?” 

“I’m not sure-”

Tyrion dropped his  voice. “Tell me.” 

Bran and Meera shared a look once more, before turning back to him. Bran sighed. “I’ve seen three children. One, born to rule, but never ruling. One, born into sickness, but finding strength. One, born in darkness, and staying there. That’s all I’ve seen.” 

“Three children? Mine?” 

“I think so, but what I saw was unclear. If I knew more-”

Tyrion nodded, and the carriage fell into unease. 

_ Three children. Sansa and I will have three children.  _ Tyrion fought to control a smile. He knew the strange prophecy was far from optimistic, yet he couldn’t help but picture the future it laid out for them.  _ Three children of our own, to carry our legacy, and Sansa’s name. Three heirs of Winterfell.  _ _ However _ _ they turn out, ruling or not, sick or strong, why should I care? Three children- _

Winterfell appeared to them at last in the distance, its stone walls standing proudly against the perfect blue sky with its blinding sun and light clouds catching on the warm breeze. When Sansa had left the North, what felt like years ago, spring had not fully taken hold and the ground was still frequently covered in thin layers of snow while the sky was blanketed in grey clouds ready to deliver the next deluge. She had not seen a real spring in the North since she was child, before the long summer set in, and to see Winterfell without its usual white roofs and windswept banners filled her with even more desire to reach her home once more. 

For the final stretch of their journey, which would see them home by midday, Tyrion joined her on his mount. He had been especially enthusiastic the past few days, waking early and pressing a number of kisses against her brow while she still was caught between sleep and waking. Now he rode beside with a great smile plastered across his face and had spent the journey so far exchanging japes with his brother. She rolled her eyes at their base humour and pressed onwards. All she could think of was reaching her home once again, sleeping in her bed, seeing her council and falling into the same habits. She had already planned to pay her brother a long overdue visit near the weirwood, and to pay tribute to the rest of her family in the crypts below the keep. The crypts would be her first stop; she felt the need to speak with those sealed away down there, to tell them that all they fought for was finally resolved.  _ We’ve won.  _ This time she truly felt it. 

She fought the urge to squeeze her thighs together and break away from all else, hurtling at an impossible speed to and only skidding to a halt when she was well within the keep’s walls. But she didn’t.  _ It’s not Queenly,  _ she thought to herself and, as if to prove her point, a horse thundered past them all, Arya hunched over on top as they sprinted forward.  _ In a different time, Jon would’ve been chasing her down shouting her on as their laughter echoed across the fields. Robb would’ve stayed with me for a time, taking his role as eldest very seriously, until, at last, his spirit would win him over and he’d be ahead, desperate to catch up with them.  _ She preferred to take in the castle slowly, letting the walls overhead tower over her, not come and go in the briefest blink of an eye. She let the familiar smells of home reach out to her one by one as the neared she gate instead of the hitting all out once, and she savoured those extra few moments she gained to appreciate what she’d fought for. 

When they reached the gates, the company stopped and reassembled itself into its usual formation, Sansa leading the charge but with Tyrion at her side, Brienne behind her and Jaime behind him. The rest of the host arranged themself by rank and when a horn was blown at the other end of the line, they set off and allowed the walls of Winterfell to encase them once again. 

Chanting and cheers greeted them in the courtyard and from the ramparts above. All sorts had gathered to see the procession and every face seemed eager to be a part of the moment their Queen returned home, having put out rebellion and restored the land to peace and justice. At the front of the crowds, her council awaited her, smiling broadly and soon rushing forward to greet them as they dismounted and the horses were led away. Sansa half wished she too could be taken by some invisible reins and left to rest in a cool, dark stable where only the odd stableboy would interrupt her sleep. She did not dislike the attention and appreciated the shared welcome she received, but she ached from riding, dreamed of hot food and wine, and longed for steaming bath to sink into. 

Podrick had smiles for all, especially his once Lord, who cheered to see his old squire once again. None however, was as glad to be there, than Jeyne Poole, who brought a shaking hand to her mouth and would’ve fallen upon her knees if it weren’t for the arms moving quickly to keep her up. Her eyes, wide and unblinking, were staring just beyond Sansa, who turned in confusion, and met the gaze of Theon, who looked just as in the dark as she was. It was then that Sansa also spotted her sister, resurfacing from the crowd, face turned an uncommon sickly hue. Arya rushed forward, hands raised in a surrender and blurted something out to Jeyne, who remained stuck in  position. She shook her head several times, blurted out a few curses, then finally burst out in a teary laugh and she bounded forward and wrapped her arms around her husband’s neck, burying her face in his shoulders to dampen the sound of gleeful sobs.

“What did you do?” Sansa rounded on her sister, who had regained a majority of the colour in her cheeks. 

“I  _ may  _ have told Jeyne that Theon was dead.” She shrugged. “But only because she was asking questions and I thought it was true.” 

“Oh Gods.” Sansa brought her hand to her mouth to hide a chuckle at the foolishness of it all, before her smile was wiped out by a thought.  _ To think  _ _ someone _ _ I loved had died and I would never see them again? To think I had lost them and hadn’t even said goodbye, or that I loved them, or held them one last time. For them to simply not be anything anymore but to still have to carry on as before, face the day as if nothing has changed?  _ She shuddered at the mere thought and reminded herself to see Jeyne that night –  _ no, she’ll be busy tonight – _ early tomorrow, to make sure she was alright. 

Sansa was caught up in the embraces, welcomes and bowed heads, but eventually the main bulk of the crowd dispersed, with lives still to live, and most of her company were making moves inside, awaiting the chance to discuss all had happened in their separation.  _ I’ve  _ _ told _ _ that story too many times.  _ She wished to put it behind her, forget most of it had happened and return to some form of normality. The future was far more appealing than her past year. She muttered an excuse to Tyrion, slipped the crown from her head and broke away from the others, down under the arches of the courtyard and towards a simple non-assuming door that others did not warrant a glance to. She looked around briefly, though she wasn’t sure why, and dipped inside. 

When the door shut heavily behind her, the darkness swept in, encasing her with a black veil across her eyes. She groped across the cold stone walls towards the nearest wall sconce where a single torch was lit, sitting in a small circle of orange. She lifted the torch and held it out in front of her as she carefully took to the stairs into the glow of the crypt below. 

In the chambers below Winterfell, the air hung still, as if not disturbed for a hundred years. Torches lined the walls, yet the chill was heavy and inescapable, winter or summer. She breathed in deep, the must and smell of age depositing her directly into the days of her childhood. These halls were supposed to remain undisturbed out of respect, but she could recall a number of times her siblings that hidden down there simply to find somewhere new to cause mayhem. There was Jon, hiding behind a tomb, covered in flour and howling like some deranged spirit. She’d screamed when he jumped out, but Arya hadn’t a second thought before she punched him squarely in the nose. Eddard Stark had berated them that night for disrupting the eternal rest of the dead and while she was sure to tell him that she played no part in it all, she went to bed that night smiling at the memory. 

As always, as she walked past the crumbling tombs of the Winter Kings, she felt every eye fall upon her. She’d never seen them watching her exactly, but she knew them to be there, and found herself catching her breath waiting to see the ancient statutes come to life. But she was alone, thankfully, as they remained simply watchers as she passed, each one looking younger and fresher than the last. 

Finally, she reached a far more recognisable section of the crypts where her father and brothers lay. She took the time to light the candles at the base of each tomb as well as for her grandparents and aunt and uncles, though, out of them, she had only ever met Benjen, who lived out in the wilds somewhere, as far as she knew. As always, the round eyes of her aunt Lyanna looked down kindly upon her whilst the stoic expression of Brandon Stark, the original heir to Winterfell, regarded her coolly. Beyond that, her father, standing proudly with his Longsword in hand, met her gaze with a familiar glint in his eye, somehow enshrined in the stonework, and she mumbled an apology to him, suddenly feeling placed under his judgement. 

“I’m sorry for what happened with Stannis. I know you knew him, respected him. I tried to follow your way but he – he took too much, pushed me too far.” 

She awaited his reply but nothing came. Usually he answered her, especially in the crypts where the connection felt the strongest. Yet now no one appeared to her, nor whispered a word in her ear. She swung round, searching the dim light for any sign, but found the chamber quiet and still. Instead, she moved to Jon’s tomb, resting her hand on its cool white stone. 

“Jon?” She called out, her voice still quiet and restrained as if those around her were only sleeping.  _ I can still feel their eyes on me, but I cannot see them.  _

_ “Sansa.”  _ It was just a whisper, barely that, that swept passed her head. It was Jon’s voice, as plain as if he were truly beside her, but it was almost pained. 

“Jon!” She spun around again. She was alone.

And again. 

And again. 

And again. 

Until she wasn’t alone anymore. 

Dark narrowed eyes glowed from across the room. She hadn’t even heard movement, but they must have been behind a statute, or crouched behind a tomb. She took two even, careful breaths, as if there was no one at there, then she opened her mouth. 

The hands were around her neck before her screams could come out as anything more than a garbled screech. Eyes closed of their own accord, she kicked and hit out with her arms, but the torch had been knocked out of her hands and her swings missed their mark. One of her assailant’s hands was squeezing her neck, just tight enough to initiate a panic but not enough to stop her breathing at all. The other hand snaked down onto one of her wrists, pinning it back against the tomb she had ended up on. Her struggling was to no avail, the long thin claws held her tightly and showed no signs of letting up. Slowly, she forced her eyes open. 

_ Ellaria.  _

The snake loomed over head, lips curled into a smile and eyes still narrowed and staring unblinkingly.  _ She’s enjoying herself. My utter helplessness is her fuel and I’m being more than generous.  _ She tried again, now able to see, pressing her free hand against Ellaria’s chest and putting all her strength into forcing her off. The woman was an inch shorter than her, but her toned muscles were tell-tale signs of her years of training that Sansa had never been given.  _ I can barely keep a sword up, so I must handle only knifes and dirks like some child. My knife- _

“Do you know how long it’s taken me to reach you, all on your own? But Gods was it worth it.” She was admiring her, like a prize. “Don’t be foolish.” 

Sansa’s hand had slipped to her waist and her fingers were just grazing across the pummel of her Valyrian steel dagger. The snake stepped forward and sent a sharp knee into her hip, expertly placed to knock the knife from its hilt, leaving it to skitter across the stones. The blow caught Sansa in her lower stomach and she, by instinct, tried to ball herself up to contain the pain. Bending down only pressed her neck more into Ellaria’s unyielding grip, so she quickly pulled herself upright once more, body beginning to tire of its attempts to push her away. 

“What- what do you want?” She wheezed, her words catching in her throat and barely audible. 

“What do I want? I want what everyone wants.” Sansa could feel nails digging into supple skin. “Revenge. Blood for blood. The same thing you were looking for when you visited us in Dorne. The same thing you promised my love, before you  _ betrayed  _ him.” Her words were pure venom and her whole face contorted as she spat them out. 

“I would never-” she spluttered “-I would never betray him. He d-died in battle.” 

“The Red Viper dying in battle? He was a legend – better than the  Kingslayer , better than Arthur Dayne.” Ellaria scoffed. “They told me some deserter got lucky with an arrow. I told them I’d never heard such horse-shit in my life. You had him killed – admit it!”

“I-I've killed men before, Ellaria, but he is not one. The story you heard is true – a random soldier shot him from behind. Doesn’t sound very  _ legendary  _ to me.” 

_ Now is not the time to be funny.  _

Ellaria’s grip only tightened, and Sansa began to feel her head spin as every breath grew a little shorter. She considered trying to aim a well-placed knee into the snake’s side, but when she tried to move her legs, they barely reacted. She was already weary from travel and now the energy was being sapped from her by the second. 

“He d-died, Ellaria. All men must die. His daughters brought justice to the Mountain. It’s over.” Sansa remembered Nymeria Sand following the Hound into the throne room in the Red Keep, victory in her eyes as she finally could claim Gregor Clegane’s death. It was as Oberyn had declared on his death – his daughters were to doll out his justice. Sansa couldn’t see how his wish could have been completed any more to the letter. 

“You lie. Cersei Lannister taught you that, didn’t she? Did she teach you to kill innocent daughters too? My Tyene?”

Sansa clenched her jaw hard and held back what she truly wanted to say. It was difficult enough to talk and she didn’t want to waste her breath simply spitting insults. 

“I know it was your sister, I’m not fool enough to believe you could’ve taken my girl. But you’re here now, and I get little Arya later.” Ellaria continued, her dark eyes bobbing in Sansa’s gaze. Her eyelids were growing heavy and she knew her  consciousness was slipping away. 

“Don’t t-touch my sister. K-kill me. Do it. But leave Arya alone.” She hissed. 

Then the snake laughed, throwing her neck back like an unravelling python. When she looked back, her face had softened whilst her grip never faltered. 

“Kill you? The last person who asked me to do that, I slit their throat.  But, I didn’t come here to kill you. I brought you a gift.”

_ A gift?  _ Sansa opened her mouth to speak, but instead, was pressed further back against the tomb as Ellaria Sand leaned forward and –  _ kissed her _ . It barely lasted a second- the  Dornishwoman pressing herself against Sansa’s slightly parted lips, holding her there in the sudden embrace. Sansa could do nothing but open her eyes wide and wait for Ellaria to pull away. When she did, the snake released her neck and took a slow step away. 

“Cersei Lannister sends her regards.”

Sansa bent double, hands clawing at her neck as she gasped for the breaths she had missed. She spluttered a little but swallowed hard and, eyes watering, fingers feeling the spots that would bruise later, she stood again and ducked down quickly to retrieve her discarded knife. She held it out against the snake, who regarded her coolly. 

“Cersei Lannister?” She spat out hoarsely. “Tell me what you mean. I watched her die, what do you mean? Tell me- Tell-”

The twang of bow preceded the smack of iron against skin and bone, then the slump of a body hitting the floor. Instinctively, Sansa jumped back, steel held out before her, eyes darting upwards to the source of the arrow that had met its mark so precisely. She squinted in the dull light. 

“Are you alright, your Grace? Are you hurt?” 

Sansa checked over herself. Her neck ached and she could not breathe without some pain, but all that would heal. Knowing her voice wouldn’t carry up to the stairs, she nodded and took a few steps forward, leaving the still body of Ellaria stand, and the growing pool of red, behind. She squinted again and a few figures came into view. She had to blink to confirm her sights. 

“Arianne,  Trystane ?” The  Dornish siblings had jumped down the old stone steps two at a time and hurried over to her. Arianne’s soft eyes were warm by the torchlight as she raked them across the room. 

“You’re certain you’re alright? I thought we might be too late.” 

Sansa could only stare at the young Princess and her fair-haired brother behind her, slinging a bow over his shoulder. “I thought you were dead.”

Arianne Martell shook her head. “Thanks to her I almost was, but she handed me to Cersei to blackmail Myrcella and eventually  Trystane found me. We’ve been hunting Ellaria for well over a year, but we finally tracked her down here. Thank the Gods you’re alright.” 

“I’m fine.” She smiled, brushing her off. “She didn’t even want to kill me. Only give me a ‘gift’, strange.”

“Sansa!” A voice echoed from the door above, followed by a rattle of several pairs of feet. “What happened?” 

“I’m fine.” She repeated, it was Oberyn’s whore looking for a last chance at revenge. Arianne and  Trystane put an arrow in her skull.”

Tyrion and Brienne circled round into the crypt and joined them. With a look Sansa knew both had escaped from the exchange of stories that were no doubt happening upstairs. Sansa smiled to see them both. 

“Let’s go upstairs, find Thomos and find me some elixir for my throat.” She desired nothing more than to separate herself from the body behind her. The others nodded and followed suit as she made towards the stairs. 

“That gift,” Arianne called out, “what was it?”

Sansa chuckled at the absurdity. “A kiss, from Cersei Lannister apparently.” She shook her head, but stopped to see the siblings turn to look at  eachother . “What?”

Arianne dug within a leather bag at her hip, mumbling to herself, before bringing out a small vial labelled in a dainty hand. “Take this, just in case. Ellaria likes to – liked to – administer her poisons through a kiss. Just in case, this is the antidote.”

Sansa took it with a word of gratitude and downed the clear liquid without a thought. As she did so,  Trystane doubled back and knelt beside the snake’s body. Once again, Sansa nodded them towards the door and up to the stairs. She certainly didn’t feel like she’d been poisoned, but the antidote was at least for peace of mind. She climbed upwards towards the slight crack of daylight streaming into the dark chamber, saying a silent goodbye to the invisible eyes always watching her from below. 

A breath caught in her throat. She coughed to clear it. 

“What do you want to do with the body?” She smiled towards the Martells. 

“Whatever you want.” Arienne frowned. “She killed Arys and – are you sure you’re alright?”

Sansa coughed again. “Something caught in my throat.” She smiled faintly, waving off their concern. Arianne was talking again but she wasn’t listening, her voice was drowned out. 

_ I can’t breathe-  _

Her foot caught on a stair and her hand shot out to brace herself against the wall. Her mouth had dried out completely and her throat felt ragged like she’d swallowed every sword on the iron throne. Now on her knees, she looked up and around but the room was spinning at a  dizzying speed. Her hands clawed at her neck, nails drawing blood, scratching and searching and grabbing. 

_ I can’t- why can’t I – I can’t- _

Pain in her head. She’d fallen hard onto the stone stairs, twisting and writhing as her mouth opened and closed desperately. Everything hurt. The world was spinning. Her vision was fading. Someone was shouting. A figure was knelt down beside her, speaking to her, begging her. But the words were just  sounds . The figures were just dark splotches. Ink on canvas. Swirling stitches she couldn't master. 

The world turned red, then white, then-


	18. The Blood of A Queen

There were some things Tyrion could remember about that day. He’d woken early, eaten dry bread and salt beef, finished with sweet wine and a raised eyebrow from his wife. She’d asked him what had gotten him in such a bright mood and he’d said that it was the promise of a soft bed, warm meal and to finally put his feet up in a place supposed to be his home. Winterfell and home still sounded strange put together in a sentence, but not in a detestable way, just in a new way. They’d dressed and were off early, every man and woman baring the same look of expectation and pre-emptive relief that their destination was within sight. 

He remembered riding at the head of the remaining host, sparring with his brothers in jokes while Sansa and Brienne did their best to hide their disdain. He could not help enjoy the sweet mood of the day; the sun beat warmly on his skin like they’d never left the south and a light, gentle breeze ruffled his curls. 

He remembered the welcoming party, calling out to his wife and, strangely enough, to him. They raised their hands to reach out to them and jumped and pushed to get closest to the front. The council were waiting ahead of them, beaming – probably to have the burden lifted from the shoulders once again – and singing the praise for their ruler. 

Then they were exchanging stories, Sansa having slipped away to pay tribute to her ancestors in the crypts even he was forbidden from seeing. He took the chance to greet Podrick with a hearty slap to the back, promising to share a cup of ale with him when they got the chance. 

Gendry Baratheon was in the middle of telling his portion of the tale, when a clatter erupted from the doorway, a single guard bursting in and looking between them all. 

“Somebody- two of them – followed the Queen into the crypts-” 

Brienne shot from the room like a spear through open air and he found his legs pounding the floor as well, keeping up good speed with her. Others were following too, but they were taking the time to interrogate the guard further and find their weapons. They turned to see an assemblage of guards lingering outside of the door, murmuring about the curses of the Starks that would reign down upon them if they entered uninvited. 

“Fuck curses,” Brienne thundered, pushing past them, “get out of the bloody way!” 

Once inside, they hurried forward, calling out and trying to adjust quickly to the abrupt darkness. He’d heard her voice then, and caught a glimpse of red hair. She explained what had happened, Ellaria Sand and the Martells, in a croaking voice, and assured them she was alright. He released a breath he’d been holding since they entered the crypts and let his muscles relax. 

It is there that his memory begins to betray him. Things had seemed so sweet and resolved, that he’d relaxed his brain as well and had not paid enough attention to everything around him. Sansa was speaking to the Martells, and he skipped up the stairs, glad to have missed the fight, glad that everything was- 

He remembered hearing the sound of knees hitting against stone. He could hear the sound even later, pulsing past his ear. On instinct he’d turned, not expecting much, not expecting to see Sansa fighting for breath, to see her trying and failing to push herself up. He remembered jumping down a step so carelessly he almost missed it and slipped down himself. He remembered dropping to her side as she choked, spluttered and fell heavily onto the stone with a crack that reverberated through his skull. 

His memory here was warped beyond understanding. He sees it sometimes in dreams, but never in his own body, always looking above, unable to do anything, just watching the scene like one of the spirits from the crypt risen again. Tyrion is on his knees, calling out, shouting for the Dornish siblings to do something, and they shout back, but he does not hear their reply. Arianne is fishing through her bag with trembling, clumsy fingers whilst Brienne is demanding to know what was in the small vial they gave her. Trystane remains at the other side of the room with the body of Ellaria, calling out about how her lips were not tainted with colour. Even now in his dreams, he could not understand what that meant, but somehow his mind chose to recall it. 

Most of these things he did not hear. He did not hear the door open and a thunderous tumult of feet as others reached the top of the steps to bear witness. He did not hear the sudden onslaught of questions. It did not matter much that he did not hear, no man could answer them. 

His eyes are fixed ahead, wide unblinking – he can see only her. She is laid out across the stairs, hand scraping and clawing at her throat as she tries desperately for air. Her face, contorted in a scream, has turn a horrid bluish-purple as her mouth hangs open, gulping at nothing like a fish drowning in air. From her lips, a creamy froth is running down her chin and her eyes, bloodshot and unseeing, are fixed upon him but blind all the same. He can hear his own prayers, just a whisper but carried like a shout across the din that surrounds him. 

And they are answered. For a moment at least. 

One arm swung forward suddenly and her hand latches itself to his thigh. She squeezes, as tightly as any warrior could, catching him in an iron grip that makes him think her energy is returning, _she is fighting it off, the Gods are good._

She goes still. 

Tyrion remembers this moment most of all – it blights in his mind like a picture he cannot scrub away or deny. She’s laying out before him, blood trickling from her head down the stairs, eyes and mouth wide open but neither seeing nor saying anything. She is still, and the room is peaceful. The shouting has stopped, the feet have found their place and no one is pushing towards him anymore. Arianne Martell looks up from her bag of concoctions which she knew was empty of anything that would help. She knew a thousand poisons and their antidotes but Trystane was certain he could see no signs of what had been used. Ellaria Sand’s last sweet thrust of her knife – in death, she had won. 

Time crept back up on him, people began to move once more, puppets brought to live, except him. Every inch of him felt heavy, leaden down with weight impossible to lift. All he could do was stare into the blue of the eyes that had already lost their life, glazed over in the emptiness he’d seen before but never _that close._

That was where his memory completely ceased. He could imagine what had happened next, put the pieces together that placed him where he ended up, alone in the halls that no longer felt so warm and welcome. Those memories he could reach played on repeat while he took long swings of whatever drink he had got his hands on. He drunk deeply, but the memories kept coming. There was little else he could think of. 

_Sansa Stark is dead. My wife is dead. And I let it happen._ He crouched in the corner of the storeroom he had hidden himself away in and vowed never again to remerge. When he closed his eyes, he was waking up in a tent again, pressing a kiss to his wife’s temple and eating heartily with a smile on his face. The day began again. And Tyrion Lannister accepted it would never end. 

She awoke. She expected pain, pain in the spot where her head had met the stairs, pain where her hip had been struck by Ellaria’s knee, pain in her neck and throat. She felt nothing. If anything, she felt better than she had in a long time. Long days travelling and sleeping on the road had left her weary and fatigued yet, pushing herself from beneath the furs above her, she felt a surge of energy strike her, almost enough to render her complete ignorant to her surroundings. 

Almost. 

She stopped in her tracks. 

_This is not Winterfell._ Where she expected the black and grey curtains and canvases of her rooms in the keep, she was met with the glare of red and gold – familiar, but so withdrawn from her home. Looking more carefully, she realised she was not in Winterfell but the room wasn’t a complete stranger to her. She began to recognise the drawers across the room, the two cushioned armchairs by the fire, the piles of books around a small, cluttered desk. To confirm her theory, she took to the window, drawing aside the netting that covered it and peering out into the morning light. She was right – the bustle and hubbub of King’s Landing met her gaze – but that did not stop her from throwing herself backwards, nearly falling back into bed again. 

“Are you alright, my Lady?” A small voice called out to her from the doorway. She looked over, straightening herself, to find a maid that had once served her watching curiously. “The Lord said to wake you when it was time to ready yourself.” 

“Ready myself?” Her voice was clear, if a little higher pitched than she recalled, but not as hoarse and strained as it felt like it should be. “For-?” 

“The Royal wedding?” The maid answered with a confused titter. “Come on, the water’s already been drawn.” 

She felt the fury before she even opened her eyes. She knew time had passed. She had not felt the warmth of the bath water lapping at her skin, nor sat and had her hair teased into place, nor her dress tied together, but she could remember it all as if it was just moments ago. She was sat at the dais slightly damp from a cup of wine split over Tyrion’s head, her eyes fixed ahead at the one thing in her visions – a goblet. It was a fine piece – gold and bejewelled with every colour she could imagine. It took no fool to know this was the King’s cup and there it was sitting before her, so easy, so close to her reach. 

Something told her she did not have time to sit and debate with herself over the cup. It was there for a reason; she knew that much. Joffrey had made her husband his cup bearer, and the goblet had been kicked across the room, landing at her feet. She lifted it and placed it on the table whilst Tyrion, his face curled into a snarl, approached. One hand was in her pocket, the pocket sewed discreetly in her sleeve, where two small gems sat, unassumingly, rolling between her fingers. 

_He deserves it. He killed my family. More will die. Put us all out of our misery._ She had been told that saving him would save the realm from Cersei and Tywin’s rule, but she knew that was nonsense. They’d still have their moment in the sun, if brief, and the Lannister children would still perish, one by one. _Why not do this one early?_ Then he couldn’t hurt Margaery like Sansa knew he would. He would never hurt anyone again. 

It took the swiftest flick of her hand, and the deed was done. The stone dissolved away in an instant and she disguised her move by taking hold of the stem and handing the goblet to Tyrion herself. She nodded at him and he mouthed his thanks. 

_This is a strange dream._ She thought as she sat back down at her place. _This never happened, but I am curious to see its ending. It does not feel like any dream I’ve had before, even my memories of this day are not so clear._

She closed her eyes once more, and knew when she opened them, she would no longer be in the great hall, she would be far away, to a memory she never had, a life she never lived. 

“You’re her heir, Arya. Arya!” 

Gendry Baratheon stood in the corner of the room whilst Arya leant over a satchel, filling it with random trinkets and as many clothes as she could fit. She had barely said a word to him but went about her packing with intense focus and a meticulous eye. He himself had not known what to say, but he could no longer stand around and let her continue in the angry silence of the room. 

“I don’t care. I’m not staying.” Her neck snapped around and fixed him with her dark gaze. “You told me I would come to Storm’s End with you.” 

“I did.” He sighed. “But things changed. The people here need you now that your sister’s-” 

“Dead?” She spat out. “You don’t have to pussy-foot around it. I know it, everyone bloody knows it. I can see in their eyes –the sympathy, the worry. But they don’t know me and they didn’t know her. I don’t give a shit what they think and I’m not staying any longer or else they’ll never let me leave.” 

He took a careful step forward. “Arya. You have to.” 

She span around, a face full of fury. “I don’t have to do anything! I am not a Queen, and I never will be. I’m not made of the same stuff and everyone knows it, you included. It is not for them to tell me what to do, or you, or Brienne, or Theon, or anyone. Let Bran handle it here. I don’t care. I’m going. Even if you don’t want to come. I’m going and stop, Gendry stop-” 

He’d seen the hot tears threatening at her eyes and had stepped forward, encasing her in his firm arms and holding her still, despite her attempts at wriggling free. She beat at his chest, spat out curses between sobs and vowed never to see him again but he didn’t relent. Eventually, her will broke, and she dropped like a doll into his arms, pressed into his torso to muffle her cries. He rested his chin on the top of her head and they stood there for some time neither willing to break loose. Gendry closed his eyes and thought hard. He knew something had to be done, but he didn’t know enough about the North to know what it was. _For Arya,_ he thought, _I have to think of something_. But his mind was a murky mess. He was as much in shock as she was, as the entire keep was, and he could pull nothing from the haze except that they couldn’t stand there holding each other forever. He pressed his lips into her hair and squeezed for a moment before separating them. 

Arya looked up at him, blinking her great dark eyes, reddened and swollen. She said nothing, but he knew she was at as much of a loss as he was. 

“Now is the time to grieve, not run-away Gods know where.” He pressed a hand to her cheek. “We should find your brother.” 

She nodded and sniffed deeply, readying herself for those gazes and looks of sympathy she so dreaded. He reached down and squeezed her hand in a way that read – I'll be beside you- and they stepped out and into reality. 

Sansa wrapped her arms around herself and took in a deep breath of the frigid air that smothered them so high in the clouds. She knew she was in the Eyrie, though she did not recognise the particular courtyard she stood in, and she could recall how they got there, though it seemed more like a story she’d been told than a life she’d lived. _This is isn’t the life I lived,_ she had to remind herself, _Joffrey did not die at his wedding feast and I never went to the Eyrie with Lord Baelish. This is a dream. It feels real in every aspect, but it has to be a dream._

“Alayne?” A voice called out to her, the voice of her cousin Robin Arryn, who stepped through an archway to see her. “What are you doing?” 

“Building,” she replied offhand, looking down to find she had, in fact, constructed an entire keep out of the snow. “It’s Winterfell. My home.” 

“Petyr says your home is here now, with us.” The boy replied smartly, a frown on his face. 

“It is, sweetrobin.” She did not wish to please him, but something told her she had to, or else face the consequences. Still, he did not seem satisfied with her answer. 

“You lie, you would rather be there than here. You are meant to be here, not over there. People die over there, but we are all safe here. You don’t understand it at all.” In his fury, he jumped forward and, like a crazed giant, destroyed the walls of Winterfell with every stomp. She watched on in horror, trying to reach out and restrain him, calling out to him, soothing him. But nothing worked. An unrelenting fury took hold of her in its fiery fingers, reaching up from deep within and taking root in her mind. Before she could stop herself, her hand had swiped through the air and made perfect contact with the little Lord Arryn’s cheek. 

“Stop this!” A voice cut through the courtyard, one that filled her stomach with bile. Robin had fallen back and was convulsing but guards had already stepped forward to restrain in, guards she hadn’t even noticed were there. _They saw me hit him. They’ll tell my aunt Lysa, I’ll be shut out of the Eyrie or –_ She couldn’t even think of the alternative but she could see the moon door opening up its hungry mouth to her, pulling her in, tugging at her cloak and newly dark hair. 

Arms held her back from the precipice that was soon returned to the courtyard and now to Petyr Baelish who caught her in his embrace and was trying to meet her eyes. She was blabbering, she realised, talking nonsense about nothing in particular and he was holding her like a child, murmuring words of comfort, whispering in her ear that it was all going to be okay. Nothing would hurt her; she’d get back to Winterfell soon. 

He was right. 

When she next opened her eyes, Winterfell was before her. Its stone walls towered above her once more, but were now laid with the flayed man of the Bolton’s. The battle opened up before her as she watched from a hill above on horseback, Littlefinger by her side, his scrupulous eye weighing their chances. The men of the Vale had swarmed the field and were beating the Bolton men back, saving the meagre Northern forces from complete decimation. The gates of the keep had been breached with a crack so loud it rattled up to them and echoed for leagues around. 

She squinted – she spotted the flaming hair of Tormund Giantsbane, and at his side, her brother climbing over shattered wood and storming the keep. She knew what would happen next, inside Ramsay Bolton would be beaten and locked away with his own dogs. The keep would fall and Stark grey banners would hang from its walls once more. 

But she wasn’t where she was supposed to be. She felt a strange pull towards the field of battle itself, with a sword in her hand and freshly-bloodied armour instead of the winter cloak she found herself in. But she remained on the hill, and could not see a Dornish sun in any direction. 

_They did not come here. Oberyn is already dead. I never went to Dorne so they never came with me. At least that means Ellaria would never – what did she do?_

Her memories floated together in a haze that she had to pick through every time she had a thought. There were some things she remembered that she did not believe and others things she saw which she couldn’t fathom how events led up to it. She knew herself thought – Sansa Stark, Queen of – _Queen_? I am no queen. Winterfell belongs to me but – She shook her head, trying to focus on the battle ahead of them. But the fighting had all but ceased and she knew she would not stay on the hill that long. There were still dangers to fight, dangers much worse than a few Bolton foot-soldiers. 

“May I?” Jaime followed his gut to the Stark crypts where his found Brienne sat on the steps, sword across her lap and eyes fixed on the sticky trail of blood that no one had bothered to clean away. 

“Hmm?” She looked up, her concentration broken, and nodded for him to join. Jaime crouched down and sat just above her, near enough to the position he’d found himself in just hours ago. 

“How’s Tyrion?” She asked quietly but surely, returning her gaze to the steps. 

“Gods know. Servants said he pinched a carafe of the strongest red from the stores and hadn’t been seen since. I can perfectly imagine he’s held up in a cupboard somewhere. That’s where I used to find him at the Rock when he needed to escape father. He was much littler then and could fit into the smallest of spaces.” He half-smiled, but the gloom got him and it soon faded away. Brienne nodded and rested her hand on her blade. “Come up with me.” He extended a hand. “You haven’t eaten anything.” 

“I couldn’t bare it.” She spoke behind clenched teeth. “All of those people up there. I know what they’re thinking and – I don’t want it.” 

“Bri-” He reached a hand a dropped it carefully on her still-armoured shoulder. Her whole body rang with tension. “It’s not your fault. It’s no one’s fault. What do you think you could’ve done?” 

“Come down here with her?” Her head snapped upwards, face flushed and eyes red. “It is –was- my duty to protect her but I couldn’t even stay by her side for long enough to- I promised Lady Catelyn, Jaime, I promised her I would keep her safe and I promised Sansa as well. I swore before gods and men and before you and- they should string me up!” 

“No one’s going to _string you up_. This place is special to the Starks, chances are she probably would’ve had to wait outside anyway, have you thought of that?” He shook his head and shuffled slightly closer to her. “And if they do blame you? We leave this place, go back down south. There’s the Rock or Tarth or the bloody Red Keep. One death doesn’t doom us all.” 

“One death? She was your good-sister! And your Queen. We can’t just run away. It wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t-” Brienne coughed away a crack in her voice and dabbed at her eyes with the back of her hand. She looked down to the sword in her lap. “This was her father’s blade, I don’t deserve it. It should stay down here, with them.” She gestured towards the endless rows of tombs, each with the white stone statutes towering above. 

He nodded and stayed quiet, not knowing what else to say. He knew there wasn’t much he could say that would shift the weight of blame from her broad shoulders. He felt it too, though he bundled it up within and refused to acknowledge it. He knew rationally the same as he’d told Brienne, there was nothing either of them could’ve done, but he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d reached them a second faster, would something have changed? _It wouldn’t. If destiny exists, this was its work. No force alive could’ve stopped that poison. Not even the Gods chose to intervene._

He rested his other hand on Brienne’s other shoulder and leant over her, glad to feel the warmth emanating from her body. He closed his eyes, so not to see the blood anymore, and held her there, forgetting it all for a moment. There was still much to face but he pushed it far into the distance, tasks for not just another day, another lifetime. Brienne squeezed one of his hands and sank back into his embrace. _You cannot take this one._ He directed his thoughts as the Gods, _have I not saved enough to earn her safety? Gods, I sound as soppy as Tyrion could get._ He cursed himself as the day flooded back to him and he was forced to open his eyes. Brienne had shifted her weight beneath him, eager to leave that cold, damp chamber and the faint metallic smell that still lingered. 

He stood with her and took a last look at the red trail and the red pool several yards away where an arrow had so keenly met its mark in Ellaria Sand’s skull. He had not been there to see it, but he imagined it had happened quickly. She was dead before her body hit the ground. 

“Marry me, in Winterfell.” The words fell from his tongue before he had the chance to think over them. Still, when they were out, he made no effort to take them back and tried to put on a face of a confident man, of a proud man, of a man not brimming with fear. 

“Y-you wish to?” She raised an eyebrow, blue eyes brighter that the sea. 

“I do not wish to wait any longer.” He dropped his voice, hoping that she’d get the message. _I do not wish to run the risk of either of us dying before we can say the words._

She realised a shaky breath through her nose and paused. He knew it was the worst timing and was on the edge of taking it back and apologising for his intensity when - 

“I would like nothing else more in the world.” 

_Neither would I._

Sansa felt the weight of her gown about her shoulder first, then the bite of the cold that the many layers were protecting her against, all before she opened her eyes and realised, she could not see. It was not a sensation that lasted long, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, lit only by a row of carefully placed candles that were leading her on a path towards the weirwood of Winterfell. This was the spot that Jon had died – yet there he was, hands folded in front of him, beaming towards her. At her side, was Theon Greyjoy, being careful that her train did not set alight and ahead of them, stood next to the tree with his back turned was – at first she did not know, but then her memories caught up with her. 

“Who comes before the Old Gods this evening?” The man called out, a smile turning the corner of his lips 

Theon took a small step forward. “Sansa of House Stark, come to wed. A woman grown, true and noble, the Lady of Winterfell. She comes to beg the blessings of the Gods.” 

_No, I do not. I have not come here to wed, much less to wed him. Something is wrong, this must be a dream or I’m._ She did not know what any of it meant, but she did know that while her mind screamed at her to pick up her skirts and run, her feet remained fixed solidly in place and her smile did not falter. She sensed in herself excitement for it all, though she couldn’t begin to understand why. 

“Who comes to claim her?” Theon continued. 

“Harold of House Hardyng, knight of the realm and heir to the Vale. Who gives her?” 

Harrold the heir said his words, overspilling with pride. His eyes trailed over every inch of her, though nothing was exposed, and landed on her eyes, which he took in for the longest time. 

“Theon of House Greyjoy, her father’s ward.” 

_Save me Theon,_ she begged, but she did not utter a word to him, only offered a small smile and pressed a chaste kiss against his cheek. 

“Lady Stark, do you take this man?” 

Harrold raised an eyebrow. 

_No, Gods no. I would never lower myself to him. I am – I am better than that. I am –_ She didn’t know what she was. A part of her was outraged to be labelled Lady of Winterfell, she wished to shout at them all, remind her that she was their Queen, yet another part told her the title was perfectly suited. Sansa Stark had never been Queen of the North, the people had bestowed Jon with the title of ruler. He was their King and though she was his heir, it appeared she had lost the power something told her she once held. Her eyes drifted across all assembled, until they found Petyr Baelish, looking particularly smug in his fine dark robes bearing the crests of the House Arryn and his own fabricated house. She wished to spit and tear out his eyes. The fury in her stomach rose once more, but that is where it remained. _I am marrying Harrold; this is what I wish to do. He is handsome and chivalrous and kind to me._ She took a breath. 

“I take this man.” 

Sansa was woken by a knock at her door, small and soft, but enough to force her eyes and her lips to open as she called whoever in. She knew she was alone before she saw the empty side of bed. Harrold was away, as he often was, hawking in the Vale with Lord Robin. Part of her was glad to not wake next to his loathsome face, but another longed for the company, to have her husband beside her. 

“Your Grace, Tormund Giantsbane is here. He’s seeking an audience.” A familiar voice called out which Sansa recognised quickly belonged to her childhood companion, Jeyne Poole. 

She glanced quickly around. _Winterfell. The dream is over._ It had seemed too lifelike, but now it had passed. Harrold Hardyng was dead, cast from the moon door by Robin. She was Queen, the realm had been saved. She must’ve have been so exhausted from travelling that she fell straight into bed and slept in till late, explaining her actual husband’s absence. 

“Thank-you Jeyne.” She grinned, overcome by the relief that it had all been a concoction of her mind. “Could you ask Theon to see to him while I dress, if he hasn’t already.” She pushed herself to her feet and padded over to her drawers of gowns. 

“Theon?” The young woman asked lightly, “what do you mean?” 

“What do I mean?” She scoffed, “have you already forgotten your own husband?” Jeyne’s expression did not change. “Theon Greyjoy. My hand.” 

“Are you alright, your Grace? You know Theon has been dead years now. He died in the Long Knight, protecting your brother.” There was a small quaver in Jeyne’s voice that struck Sansa strangely. It did not sound like some joke to her, Jeyne believed her own words. _But I saved Theon from the Night King’s blade – I took it instead._ Yet, when she tried to recall it, the memory slipped from her reach, and instead she was lighting Theon’s pyre, tears blurring her vision. _Theon is dead._

_So is Margaery, and Jon, and sweet Missandei, and Jaime and Daenerys and-_

Each death came to her like she was there as well. She saw Margaery at her brother’s side as the Sept burst with green flame. She saw her brother as expected, falling to Daenerys’ blade to save the North. She saw Missandei executed by Cersei after Tyrion and Daenerys had tried to make peace. She saw Jaime, alone in the Red Keep after it came crumbling down around him. She saw Daenerys, a crossbow bolt lodged in her neck, falling back against the throne in what was left of the keep. 

She felt them all as well, the lick of the wildfire, the bite of Lightbringer, the stones crashing down upon her and her neck screaming out in sudden and unstoppable pain. 

Sansa fell to her knees, clutching at her throat and overcome by shaking that would not cease. 

“Tyrion?” She managed towards Jeyne who looked on wide-eyed and wordless. 

“Lannister?” She tilted her head. “After he killed Daenerys, Gods only knows where he is. We haven’t heard anything more, if that’s what you're asking. Should I get the maester, are you sick?” 

_Of course, it was him that pulled the trigger. Daenerys was on a path he couldn’t follow and he knew what had to be done. He’d seen it all before. But now-_ Her stomach twisted to think of it. _He still can’t find a place to call home. He’s on the run and his chances of finding a safe place_ _are_ _slim._ She shook her head, denying it all, yet knowing it all had to be true. The dreams weren’t dreams at all. All she had seen had happened, and it had all begun when she slipped those damned stones into Joffrey’s cup. She had cursed herself and everyone else she loved, with that one flick of her hand. 

_Not everyone,_ she remembered, _Arya must be somewhere, she is not dead._ But in hiding. She remembered that as well. Stannis Baratheon had retaken his lands in Storm’s End and sought to butcher Gendry and Arya for claiming it as their own. Even Sansa was not privy to where her sister had escaped to. There was a chance she would never see them again at all. 

The tears came hot and heavy, leaving her gasping for breath, curled up on the floor as her whole body trembled. It had fell on her all at once, the deaths, the loss, the curses, but most of all, the loneliness. Sansa Stark was truly alone. Jeyne Poole was there, but she looked half a ghost, so pale and thin, and everyone else she truly cared for was so far out of reach. She pulled her limbs tighter to her chest, rocking herself through each sob, telling herself it wasn’t real. _I am still the worst liar in the realm._

There was a storm over her head. A swirling, battering storm that beat against the rocks and howled through the corridors, smacking against windows and sending banners flying into the distance. It wasn’t letting up. It would destroy her completely if she let it, and she was stuck, unable to move to save herself. The winds whipped around her, the thunder deafened her and the sea crashed over her shivering frame. No one was coming to rescue her – even Jeyne was a faraway dream. The waters or the wind would take her soon enough. _Then it will be over at least. Then it will stop._

_Make it stop._

_Let it stop._

_Let me go!_

_“_ Okay.” 

Sansa opened her eyes for what she knew somehow, would be the last time. The rocking boat of dreams had ceased its journey and the destination was cold and black and completely empty. At first, she thought she’d gone blind – the poison hadn't killed her but had taken her eyesight as payment. Then she caught sight of her hands before her, the green ring on her finger, and the light snow that fell from nowhere and did not settle. 

She found herself standing, wrapping her arms around herself against the sudden bitter chill in the air. It was colder than the crypts in the deadest of winter, colder than she knew, and she was still dressed in her spring gown and riding coat. 

She squinted. She could see herself now, pale skin and green dress, but otherwise her view remained devoid of anything bar the blackness that spread out infinitely. _Am I inside? Outside?_ There were no signs to give it away. 

_I heard a voice._

Someone had spoken to her before the strange vision had dropped away; a familiar voice that felt out of place in her dreamworld- an echo in her mind. Now she spun on her heel, feeling eyes burning flames of ice into her back and faced a single piece of furniture – an ornate chair – and someone sat upon it, tapping her fingers against its armrest. 

“I thought you’d never wake up.” Cersei Lannister drawled, inspecting her fingernails. “But I suppose you were having too much fun.” 

“Where am I?” Sansa spurted out. She was in no mood to spar with the lioness. 

Cersei laughed gently. “You know where you are, don’t you, sweetling? You’ve been here before, so I’m told.” 

It was familiar. Yet before, it had never felt so real. This had been the strange dark desert in which she’d spoken to Tywin Lannister, and to Azor Ahai when he gave her Lightbringer. This was where Lady brought her to dance between life and death, but now her direwolf was nowhere in sight. 

“W-what happened?” There was an ache in the side of her head she had just became aware of. She brought her hand to the sore spot, and it came away sticky with perfect crimson. It was not warm as she expected her life-blood to be, but as cold as the rest of her. _I hit my head on the stairs._ It was a strange memory, mixed in with her panic, her stumbling and gasping and silent praying, but she could feel the impact once again, if she focused enough. For just a few moments, it had stung like nothing she’d felt before, but she had not been conscious enough to suffer it long. 

“You were poisoned. You died.” Cersei shrugged. “What more is there?” 

“Then why are you here? I know this isn’t death, so why would I be here, with you?” 

“You think I had some kind of choice? However much it brings me joy to know that bloody Dornish thing finally got her head out of her arse and did as I asked, I don’t find particular pleasure in sitting here, in the cold, telling you about it.” 

Sansa stepped forward. “You told her to do it.” 

“Of course, I did. _What_ , did you expect the snake got hold of those stones by herself? Rarest poison in the land and she happened to have some?” Cersei shook her head with a smirk. “She came to me seeking your blood some time ago, it may have come a little late, but it _was_ rather satisfying – and for everyone to see as well, all helpless and frightened? Pure art.” 

Sansa now noticed that in Cersei’s left hand, she’d been fiddling with something small that she caught small glimpses of as it darted over her fingers. But she could guess what it was. _Cersei said stones – poisoned stones._

“Black gems from Asshai you were told, weren’t you?” Cersei spotted where Sansa’s gaze had fallen to. “A poison meant for my son, but destined for you. Tell me, did you even feel the snake slip it in your mouth?” 

Sansa shook her head but now she understood why Ellaria had kissed her. That and her sudden breaths after her throat had been released had delivered the tiny, unnoticed stone into her stomach. _It must have been coated in something, to stop it breaking-down in her mouth, or else the whole plan would only kill her._ Sansa tasted her tongue. She couldn’t be sure if she was imagining it, but she was sure she could taste something bitter. Her eyes were still on the single stone jumping around Cersei’s hands. 

“My daughter will still be the death of you _”_ Tywin Lannister’s words echoed through her head and she wanted to scream at it all. When Cersei died, she had been certain his prophecy was just a lie, something he told her to rattle her, send her into a spiral of worry. But his words did not specify that his daughter would be living. Cersei had given the stones to Ellaria and Ellaria had completed her mission of slipping them into her mouth. But that wasn’tall Tywin had said. 

“What did you father mean, when he said you would only kill me if I stayed on a certain path? When did I go on it, when could I have got off?” 

“Gods, dear.” Cersei now stood, a sweeping, ethereal clock following behind her. From a distance, it was beautiful, something the Lioness would typically wear, yet up close, the material was so thin, it flaked away and mixed with the snow in the air. It was torn in some places, and patched over with different colours in others. Like the woman herself, it looked like it had been buried for years, subject to the rats and worms and flies eating away at the remaining flesh. “I thought you were supposed to be wise now. Did you think you saw all those strange things for nothing?” 

Cersei reached forward and pressed a hand against Sansa’s cheek. Like the dress, it was not how it appeared from a distance. The skin clung to her bones and had taken on a near green hue. Her eyes too were sunken in and grey and her neck still bore the bruises from where Jaime had choked the life from her. 

“You chose your path when you chose to save my son; when you _didn’t_ put those stones in his cup.” 

_If I let him die, I never escaped with Margaery, I never joined with the_ _Dornish_ _, I never lost Oberyn at Winterfell and Ellaria never had a reason to hate me._ Then again, the alternative life she had seen for herself did not seem much better. She was married to a man she despised, Queen of a land she had not fought for and without anyone she cared about. 

“Is that it then? My choice was death or that? Death or being alone and unhappy for a lifetime?” 

Cersei’s nails now raked across her cheek. “Not much of a choice is it? But then again, we were doomed from birth, you and I.” 

Sansa pulled away. “We are nothing alike.” She cast her eyes carefully over Cersei – her decaying, thinning body, hovering above her like a corpse dragged from its grave. Then she put a hand to her own face and thanked every god to find her skin still smooth and plump and emitting a hint of warmth. 

“I was doomed to live in Jaime’s shadow, even if I was the _far_ superior.” Cersei sighed. “And you were born to suffer, to be surrounded by death at every turn. If they had taught us both to fight for ourselves along with our brothers, things may have been different. It is our curse.” 

Sansa shook her head fervently. “Womanhood is no curse. It is difficult, but I prefer my dresses to swords, peace to war. That’s why we’re different. You spent your life denying who you were and bathing in poisons just to feel something. You surrounded yourself in war and violence because it made you feel like a man. But I fought against those things, I lived my life for peace. And I got it, whilst you, had nothing.” 

“Insolent bitch!” The form once belonging to Cersei Lannister jumped forward, fingers grasping onto Sansa’s cheeks and squeezing them together. “I was a Queen, just as you were. And you are not some pretty prim thing who’s never tasted blood. Have you forgotten the Frey girl you slaughtered? You never even knew her name. _Innocent_? You have as much blood on your hands as I did.” 

Sansa felt herself recoil, felt the weight of that once innocent death fall upon her shoulders and bind her where she stood. Men killed innocents all the time, she knew, there was always collateral damage in war. But once she had been that collateral, the sacrifice made for no real reason. Then she had made the same sacrifice herself and earned, what? A scarred face and a lesson in humility. 

_No, we are different, she’s twisting things._

_“_ I made a mistake, a knife in the wrong person. You lit _half of a city on fire_ , knowing precisely what you were doing.” She wrenched herself free of the Lioness’ claws and planted her feet firmly. “You killed and killed and killed for yourself. You killed your children for yourself and cared for no one except for yourself. Not even Jaime, you loved him but only because he was a mirror to you, a physical form that you could worship in order to worship yourself. Perhaps you are incapable of real love, but I know that I am not. I love and am loved and I will not be ashamed of that or let anyone call me _weak_ .” She took Cersei’s shoulder and forced her down to her knees. “You are _nothing_. You were cold before you died and you will forever remain that way.” She leaned in close, blue eyes meeting green. “They will mourn me, worship me, remember what I did for the North but you shall be only this – a rotting corpse, a pitiful husk who thought killing would make her a man. But it only led her to death.” 

With a forceful shove, Sansa pushed Cersei backwards, and as she hit against the floor that couldn’t be distinguished from the air, the body crumbled and cracked like paper left in the sun too long. She was finally still. 

When she was certain the Lioness wouldn’t come back to taunt her more, Sansa wrapped her arms around herself against the unrelenting cold and turned her back on Cersei Lannister for what she could only hope was the last time. 

“I’m sure that felt good.” A harmonious voice carried across the vacant darkness and met her ears sweetly. She turned in its direction and saw, far in the distance, the tiny speck of orange that grew as she approached into a blossoming fire. 

Sansa rushed forward and raised her hands to the flames, gasping in relief as the heat travelled up her arms and across her body. When she looked across the dancing flames, she noticed a pair of red eyes staring back at her. Arms still outstretched; she skirted the pile of burning wood to see her companion. Yet, she circled around the entire fire and still found herself alone. When she looked back into the flames, she saw the eyes again, narrowed a little, in enjoyment. 

“You cannot see me, Sansa. Though you already know what I look like now.” An unseen mouth spoke out. 

“Melisandre?” She was certain the deep, musical tone belonged to the red priestess that had given her life to see the prophecy of Azor Ahai fulfilled. Her body had been a charred mix of bones and ash by the time it had been collected, only her red stone surviving. 

“Yes,” the voice spoke softly, as enthralling as the priestess had been in life. “How are you?” 

“How am I?” She repeated. _How am I?_ It was a good question and one she found herself unable to answer. She had seen a number of horrors, wept until her body ached then emerged in a desolate hall as cold and cruel as death itself. _And, along with all of that, I am dead._

_I am dead._

It felt strange to think and she refused to say the words aloud, even if she knew they were true. Her memory of the crypts was hazy, but it was becoming clearer. Ellaria Sand had poisoned her and no antidote could have saved her in time. She died on the stone steps, bleeding and choking. She hadn’t had the chance to say goodbye to anyone. She couldn’t even remember what her last words were but she knew there were as insignificant and base as her death. 

“I don’t know,” was her final, whispered reply. Even the warmth of the roaring flame was failing to beat out the bitter air that crawled all over her skin, slipping between the layers of her clothes and running its frozen fingers through her hair. “I don’t really know where I am, nor why I’m here or what is happening and -” She faltered, the list of things she didn’t know was endless. 

“You can stay here with me, for a time.” Melisandre would’ve smiled if she had a face. “But not forever. Your family are waiting for you.” 

“My family?” 

“Isn’t that what you want? To be with them once again? They’ve all been waiting.” 

Sansa looked around, but found they were still alone. There was something though, a feeling that tickled at the back of her neck, of someone nearby, wanting to speak with her. _They’re close, at last._ She reached up and touched the spot she’d felt something, shivering as her finger met the cool silver of the necklace still hanging from her neck. She traced the intricate chain around her throat, until she reached the heavy stone sitting at the centre of her chest, which she plucked from under her dress. Something drew her to the crimson lights that danced on its surface: the reflection of the flames. Then, at once, the fire died out as great gust of wind swept over her and guttered out its warmth and light. Sansa shivered. The embers rose before her. They twisted and groped themselves into a figure that shuddered into life and stumbled forward. 

Sansa brought a hand to her mouth to muffle her scream. It was a body, that was clear, but it was only the charred remains of what had once been. The head was completely stripped of hair, once long and deep red. Only scraps of clothing clung to the skin that itself was hardly there. The whole figure appeared like it was still burning from within, and Sansa was afraid to get too close. Its dark fingers took hold of the ruby and its eyes shut tightly. 

Sansa took a breath. It had sounded like the Red Priestess, even if it did look like a creature from the deepest depths of a nightmare. “The stone’s special, isn’t it? I was drawn to it.” 

Melisandre dropped it and looked up. “Every member of my order received one like this when we were sent to our Kings and Lords, towns and cities to preach the word of the Lord of Light. They realised that, men especially, were more likely to listen to us if we looked... appealing to them. The stones were enchanted with old, powerful magics to keep us young and attractive to those we advised. When taken off, of course, the spell was broken and we returned to ourselves, however old and ugly that might be. Eventually, you would get so old you’d take it off and just cease to be. This is a very powerful stone you carry, even if its magic died with me.” 

Sansa traced a line along the edges of the ruby. She was by no means surprised to hear the tale nor to find out that the stone she had carried for nearly four years had been something remarkable all along. She looked up to find red eyes regarding her carefully. 

“So,” the priestess returned to her original train of thought, “you wish to go be with your family, be at peace?” 

Peace. She fought for peace for so long yet this was the first time it was being offered to her on a plate, no strings or wars attached. It was a fine offer too. She ached from standing too long and dreamed of sitting down. _I am just twenty and two but I feel as old as any sage and wearier than all the grey beards of the world put together. I have lived a hundred lifetimes in just twenty years._ She could see her family, arms open wind, hands outstretched towards her, smiles and kind eyes all around. Her brothers would rush up to meet her and guide her towards the rest. Her parents would be the first to embrace her and hold her as they had not done since Sansa was little. Others she’d lost would poke their heads through the crowd to welcome her. There was no sweeter dream, no simpler life for her to finally rest in. Yet- 

_“_ You ask me that as if there’s an alternative.” 

Melisandre smirked as much as she could. “There is, child. It is no pure chance that you still wear that stone, that you were wearing it today. It can do much more than just create a veil of beauty for the favour of some egotistic, self-serving Lords.” 

Sansa stepped forward. “It can bring me back?” 

“At a cost,” Melisandre took her hand, squeezing it painfully tight, “it can.” 

_I can live again?_ “What cost?” 

“The price for life is death. The Lord of Light will give you live, that which was taken from you, but you must give him something in return, something you have taken from him. Something you possess that no other does, something that should never have been given to you in the first place.” 

_I don’t particularly like riddles._ She racked her brains, thinking through anything she had been given that did not belong to her. Initially, she thought of the ring at her finger, which had been taken from Casterly Rock, but she wondered how that could ever be seen as connected to any Lords of Light. A sound in the distance caught her attention and she squinted to see where it was coming from. It had been a dog’s bark, she was certain, and now the sound of thundering paws and panting proved it. 

Out of the black, Lady appeared, white snow leaving droplets all over her shaggy grey fur and eliciting a sneeze when one landed on her coal-black nose. Sansa could not help but kneel down and run her hands across her flank and rub under Lady’s chin, her favourite spot. 

_A gift I was never meant to have._

_“_ I have to give her up, in exchange for my life?” Sansa looked upwards at the charred remains standing above her. 

“All of them. Life and death should remain separate, but you have danced between them for too long. My Lord requests you give that gift back, then you shall be returned to Winterfell unharmed.” 

Sansa rested her hand on Lady, expecting to feel a pulse. Of course, there was nothing. _She isn’t real. “_ I’ll never see them again, or speak to them?” 

“Never and you will not be able to take the necklace off either, or the poison will return.” She nodded, “that is the offer.” 

She thought once more of that peace that had felt like an idyllic dream. There she was with family, but not all of them. Some remained living, left behind where she could never reach. She would have to wait another lifetime to see her sister or brother, to see Brienne or Theon, to see Tyrion- 

_A choice of life and death._ She’d never imagined ever having such a choice. Mostly people just died and that was it. Life was over and everyone else slowly picked themselves up and moved on. Second chances were rare and, with the number of times her life had been saved, she was sure she’d already used enough chances up. _But I wasn’t ready. It wasn’t fair._ Good deaths happened at good times. They meant something, just like Joffrey’s death had to mean something, just like Jon’s death saved the realm. Dying pitifully in the crypts, poisoned and cold, that wasn’t a good death and she certainly did not feel ready to accept it as belonging to her. Death was familiar to her, but this didn’t feel right. Now she understood why. 

_Cersei was destined to kill me, but that doesn’t mean I have to die._

Her family were waiting with open arms, outstretched hands and the biggest smiles she’d ever seen, but they’d have to wait a little longer. She still ached to sit, but she had work to be done. The North would never be safe, the blind seer had told her once, so giving up her duty simply was not an option. 

“What do I have to do?” 

When she looked up for an answer, Melisandre was gone. In her wake, a gilded knife was laid out on the ground, its hilt pointing towards her. Sansa took hold of it, feeling the cool gold her hands that told her there was still warmth left in them. A voice hung on the air. 

_There is nothing more powerful than Queen’s blood._

She took a breath, deep and shaky, and closed her eyes. Her family looked down at her, but they were not angry. They were still smiling, even if they were falling further and further away, until they disappeared from view altogether. When she opened her eyes, the was nearly blinded by the light of the ruby at her chest. It embodied the warmth of the fire long died out. It had to be then. 

Lady nudged at her hand, dark eyes lit by the ruby, narrowed towards her. The direwolf was smart enough to know what’s going on, the choice I’m making. Sansa laid her forehead against Lady’s and held onto her tight. She breathed deeply, burning the smell into her memory and stretching out the moment as long as she could. At last, though, she pulled away, rubbing the great dog’s head behind the ear. 

“Goodbye, my Lady.” She whispered fighting off the tears. It was not a sad moment, _this is not a final goodbye, just one for a time._ Then she thought of the family waiting for her. _Goodbye. Sorry to disappoint, but I’ll see you again._

Before she could change her mind, she tightened her grip around the knife and with a careful swipe, she cut a single line along her palm, beads of blood instantly seeping through onto her skin, coming together in a long trail that dripped down from her fingers. She did not know if there were words to say, or any actions to make, but she hoped her meaning would be taken as she pressed her bleeding hand hard against the light of the red stone, squeezing it until blood splattered down her dress. She pressed her eyes shut hard and spoke th to the open air, hoping someone out there would hear her. She begged and prayed and wept, all while staring at the blackness behind her eyes that turned red, then white, then- 


	19. The Eternal Flame

Black. The blackness around her was only a degree lighter than that which lingered behind her eyes. Still, she could not see ahead of her, nor her own hand inches from her face. 

Sansa Stark woke. She had grieved for herself, wept for herself and accepted her death, yet her eyes opened and she knew she had fought it off. Her finger rubbed along the palm of her left hand and she felt the wound, blood just dried but still fresh. _It worked._ Relief flooded over her. Relief and a sudden urge to get up, to spring from wherever she had awoken and run and tell the world. _I am not dead! Stay the bells! Dry your tears!_

She expected her body to still ache as it had done the morning she arrived at Winterfell, worsened by the poisoning, yet a surge of energy was passing through every muscle in her. She longed to stand and stretch every one out, bring them all back to life and start anew. 

She pushed herself up onto her elbows – and knocked her head. Her hands searched the air above her, and in the bleakness, she found a layer of stone - a single slab, hanging over her. She felt beneath her – stone. And to both sides – stone. There was no light, no warmth and not enough air – _there was never supposed to be life in here. This is my tomb._

A jolt of shivers passed through her. She’d read a story once of a man buried before his time, choking on the lack of air and dying anyway. The relief had turned to panic and her hands reached upwards once more, now pounded on the lid of her tomb, shouting as much as her throat and lungs would allow. She kicked out with her feet too, till her toes and knuckles were warmed by blood. 

The crypts were deep beneath Winterfell, and her tomb was sat far down the long chamber. She knew no one outside would hear her. Her only chance was if someone was down there – her only chance had to be Arya or Bran. 

_No one is coming._

She carried on. Her fists pounded. Her feet kicked. Her voice screamed and cried and begged. Her fists pounded. Her feet kicked. Her voice- 

She faltered. In her panic, she was taking great gulps of air, and more to aid her screams, and by now her head was beginning to spin. She stopped, slowed her breathing, and thought, hard. _No one is coming, so I must do it myself._

She raised her forearms above her head and lifted her feet against the stone, folding herself on her back like a frog about to spring forward. With a short breath, she closed her eyes and pushed. She thought only of the world outside; of sunlight and grass and rain and fresh air and food and gallons upon gallons of the sweetest wines that were so abundant in the spring and summer. She thought of smiles and laughter and tears and screams and every sound of pleasure she could recall. She thought of Arya and Bran, of Tyrion, of Brienne, of Jaime, of Theon and of all else that were waiting for her outside. She saw their sweet faces and told them she was coming. _All I have to do is heave this_ _inches_ _thick slab of stone off of me._ She gritted her teeth, balled her fists, and - 

It moved. 

Her eyes shot open, watching in amazement to see the great stone shifting. She did not stop pushing, in fact, she was sure she was trying harder, though she could not understand what strength had suddenly possessed her to push up the slab that took a team of four men to lift usually. 

When the stone was moved enough, faint torchlight streamed in and danced across her face, so soft yet so bright that she had to shield her eyes and blink it away. The stone was moving too, now of its own accord as her feet had dropped, realising they were doing nothing, and she squinted as she looked up to see who would be standing above. 

“Sansa?” 

She squinted harder. 

“Bronn?” 

“Fucking hells!” 

Sansa dropped her legs down, steading herself against her tomb and leaning heavily against her rescuer. He was still looking at her strangely, like she wasn’t real, and she didn’t blame him for his apprehension. When she was steady enough to stand on her own, a little shakily, she met his eyes. 

“What were you doing down here?” She drew her arms around herself. The sellsword turned knight turned Lord had accompanied them back North, remaining with the Stark host most of the journey, trading stories with the knights and swordsmen. She had nearly forgotten he was with them and would’ve completely if he didn’t show his face every few days, ale in hand and a broad smile across his face. 

He shrugged and sniffed loudly. “Wanted to say my bit.” He half-smiled. “Couldn’t see myself staying here long enough for a funeral.” He rubbed his hand together, and they stood in a odd silence, both shivering and searching for something to say. 

“Thank you.” She muttered, “if you hadn’t have come down here -” she trailed off, knowing precisely what would’ve happened and knowing also that no one alive would have known any better. 

“You’d be very fucking dead.” He chirped. “Though, you’re going to have to explain to me why you aren’t. Last time I saw corpses get back up again; they weren’t so friendly.” 

“I don’t quite get it myself.” She smiled, taking his arm as held it towards her, “but I can tell you all I know. How long... how long was I _gone_?” 

He looked up, thinking it over. “Only just gone a day. They put you in there because no one else knew what to do.” 

“A day?” She broke from him and raised her hands to her face. “Do I look like death? Am I rotting and -” She sniffed but couldn’t smell the sweet stench of decay she expected. 

“You look fine your Grace, a little on the pale side, but the best corpse I’ve seen in a while.” He untied the travelling cloak at his neck and dropped it over her still trembling shoulders. Sansa nodded her head, retook his arm, and they continued along the chamber. 

“You want to tell me how you did-” he gestured with his freehand across her “- that. Others were pretty certain that you were, you know...” 

She took each step carefully, finding more strength as they climbed upwards. “Yes- but I don’t really understand it either.” She smiled faintly, keeping her hold on his arm tight. They stepped over the spot on which she’d fallen, cleaned up, but still smelling faintly of iron. She did not dare look down, though she guessed she’d see nothing out of the ordinary. They were just steps into her family’s crypts. _I have no reason to fear them._

Then they were outside. The darkness which had been so all encompassing and sickly melted away into the warm light of early afternoon. They stepped out from under stone arches and a gentle sun spread across her features. Her mind went back to the place she’d been in where there’d only been darkness and the faint fall of snow. There had been no sun in that place, not one opening for its rays to sneak through. Yet here the light was unshackled and crept into every corner. She wallowed into its soft warmth and smiled broadly. There was no better feeling. 

Then they were inside again, but the light seeping in through windows reminded her that it still shone outside. Bronn led her towards an audience chamber, knocking crassly on the door and not waiting for an invitation to enter. She remained behind, at first shielded by him as he stepped inside and greeted those assembled before him. Few looked in his direction as he called out, mostly hunched over maps and letters like the war was still ravaging the land. She wondered what is was they were discussing so ardently but then she realised. _What happens next._

Bronn coughed loudly for their attention once more. He was met by a series of sighs and grumbles. 

“Do you have anything of value to add?” Jaime Lannister called from the centre of the huddle, beside Theon. They all wore the deep under-eye bags and pale faces of those having been dragged against their will from a sleepless night. They still did not look up to see him, too distracted by their work, and the sellsword cursed underneath his breath. Sansa balled her hands into fists and took a step forward. 

“I think he has one thing you might want to consider.” 

Faces turned to her, one by one. At first they had been dismissive, minds working to connect her voice to her face, yet, realisation dawned across them and heads shot around and mouths hung agape. The sudden focus was startling and Sansa half wished they would all stop looking at her, but she stood and faced the full brunt of their wide eyes and unspoken confusion as the silence dragged on. 

A chair squeaked against the floor as it was pushed out and feet found their way around the table, stopping a step away from her. It was Theon Greyjoy who had made the first move and was the first to reach out his hands and touch hers. 

“You’re real.” He mumbled, more to assure himself than anyone else. 

Finding herself lacking words, she nodded and braced herself as her hand pressed her against his chest, warm and welcoming, and her arms naturally wrapped around him. She knew precisely how it felt, having been in his position before. Sansa had been certain Theon had perished when the _Young Wolf_ was cleaved in two, yet he’d stood before her in Lannisport, completely unaware of their misplaced misery. 

“That’s impossible.” The voice of Arianne Martell cut across the room. “I saw her die, it cannot be.” She marched forward, “this is some sorcery, a deception of some kind. Where did you find her?” 

“In her own bloody tomb, trying to punch her way out.” Bronn shrugged dismissively though Arianne’s dark eyes did not lose their look of suspicion. Theon had stepped away, leaving Sansa stumbling slightly as she was left on her own. She glanced up to meet the Dornish Princess’ scrutinising gaze. 

“Who are you? What are you doing here? Who sent you?” Everyone watched on, the same questions on their lips. 

“You know who I am.” Sansa replied simply. _I do not know how to prove who I am to these people._

_“_ And yet nearly every person in this room watched _Sansa Stark_ die. She was poisoned. You must be some imposter.” Arianne voice lifted. 

“Sister, please.” Trystane stepped to her side and took hold of her arm. 

She pulled away. “No. I have been tricked and played for a fool too many times. Prove that you are Queen Sansa!” 

Sansa looked around the room for support, but their faces bore equal looks of quiet weariness. Perhaps they did wish it was true, that she’d come back, but no one could let themselves fall prey to that impossible hope. 

“I-I don’t know how. I will tell you all I do know though, if that would help?” She could not blame them for their suspicion. She herself would’ve done the same if she’d seen Robb returned again, or Jon. 

That was when she felt it for the first time; the emptiness around her. She had never really noticed the exact feeling of them before, of the family that travelled with her, but now their absence left a vacuum of empty space, a darkness as bleak and heavy as that she had woken up to. She could not feel them linger behind her, or leaning in to whisper advice in her ear. Her mother’s warmth had fallen away and the strength of her brothers was sapped out of the air. Tears spiked at her eyes but she quickly blinked them away. 

“Tell us, Sansa.” Brienne’s voice called out. She was seated at the table still, her face cradled in two broad hands. She looked the most exhausted of them all. 

And so, she did. She spared only a few details, mostly of her seeing Cersei Lannister, and the exact details of the deal she had to make. The room watched on in complete silence, though she could see questions buzzing behind their lips, they waited until she had finished the tale, waking up in her own tomb, to begin their assult. 

“I do not believe it. This is still no proof.” Arianne’s voice drowned out all others. Her eyes, almost black, remained fixed on Sansa’s and did not appear to be moved by her story. She furrowed her brow. “There are many tricksters that could’ve thought up such a story.” 

At this, the door swung open behind them, preceding the sound of wheels rolling in across the slightly uneven stones. Sansa thanked the Gods for a chance to break away from the Dornish Princess’ unending stare, and turned quickly around, invoking a sudden wave of dizziness that she shook away. 

“Sansa?” A small voice called out from the door. Just as her sight came back into focus, she saw a flurry of brown and black, giving her less than a second to brace herself before a body slammed into her, nearly knocking her down. Sansa rested her hand gently on the head of unruly dark hair and held her sister tight against her. 

“Step away, your Grace.” Arianne warned. “We do not know whether this is truly your sister. She cannot prove it and may means us all-” 

“It’s her.” Bran cut her off, coolly. Above Arya’s head, Sansa looked across the room to where her brother had been wheeled in. He was smiling broadly, but there was something else in his eye, an understanding, a relief, as if he’d been waiting for this moment for a great time. At his words, she heard Arianne back away, speaking in a hushed tone to her brother. Even she knew the weight of the youngest Stark’s words. 

When at last Sansa could pry Arya off from around her middle, the embrace was replaced by a sharp blow to the arm. 

“Arya!” She rubbed the sore spot, raising her eyebrows to her sister who bared her teeth and smirked. 

“They were going to make me Queen! Do you know who terrible that was? Someone even spoke to me about fitting me for gowns – me! You...can’t...do... that... to...me!” She shouted, punctuating every word with another slap to arm. Sansa managed to catch her forearm the last time and squeeze her wrist. 

“You are more upset about that than your dear sister?” She tilted her head. 

“Of course bloody not!” Arya wrenched her hand free. “But it truly was _horrible_.” 

Sansa chuckled, trying to imagine her sister dressed up in a full-size gown, trotting around with a crown on her head and minding her manners in council meetings. The she-wolf had enough problems with acting like a Lady, let alone a Queen. 

Opposite from Bran, she caught the eye of Gendry Baratheon, who had watched the scene with a smirk. She nodded her head towards he and he responded in same. _Thank you for keeping her here._ It read. _Thank you for coming back._ He replied. 

“What happened? How did you get here?” Arya bounced on the step leading her towards the table where she gratefully took a seat. 

“I’ll explain- later.” She smiled. Everyone had already heard her tale and she could not imagine going through it all again so soon. She scanned across the table, her eyes resting on Jaime’s, whose face was twisted in a strange look of compassion and concern. She looked around once more. _Tyrion isn’t here._ She wondered if she’d expected to seem him, or if she had already accepted he wouldn’t be with the rest. She’d been so caught up in everyone else, that her mind and drifted from him, but now, it had found its place and she felt energy building within her. 

“Where’s-” 

“In your rooms.” He replied quickly and lowly. 

She pushed herself back to her feet, ignoring the hands that offered help. “Take me to him.” 

“I really think you should wait a while. I can speak with him first and -” 

“Take me there, Jaime.” 

Tyrion Lannister was still in bed. He hadn’t slept at all through the night but found himself stuck beneath the furs, or else pacing the room back and forth, talking nonsense to himself. The very thought of sleep sent his stomach into a twisting mess. He knew at one point, its hands would seize him but the longest he could prolong the inevitable the better. He knew what awaited him in sleep, inescapable memories that plagued him enough when he was awake. _At least now I can drown it all out._ He had himself propped up against a series of cushions and was taking long, steady gulps from the cup at his side. 

The carafe was running low. _I’ll have to call again for another._

He dropped heavily to the floor and ambled towards the window. He peeled back the curtains but shut them sharply as the bright afternoon sun flashed in his eyes. He drew them tight to keep the room in the perpetual darkness he had come to prefer. There was a slight chill in the air, and he wrapped a fur around his shoulders and shook out his arms and legs for warmth. 

A knock at the door. 

His head turned towards the sound lazily and he smiled. _They’ve come already with more wine, glorious._ He stumbled towards his empty jug before stopping in place. _I haven’t even called for more yet._ He dropped his shoulders in disappointment. 

“Who is it?” 

“It’s me, Tyrion. Can I come in?” 

He recognised the voice as belonging to Jaime in an instant and inwardly groaned. His brother had made multiple attempts to see him that day already and he’d dismissed him every time. Jaime had told him the council was meeting downstairs and would appreciate his opinion. But he knew what that really meant. 

_My wife hasn’t been dead a day and they're already fucking putting their claims in._ He could imagine the vultures around their table, picking at whatever scraps were left of the North. 

“Fuck off.” He pulled the makeshift shawl tighter around himself and took himself back towards bed. “Have them bring me more wine then fuck off.” 

“Tyrion-” he implored, “I’m coming in.” 

_Bloody hells._ He took hold of his nearest cup, launching it at the door and spraying the last dregs of wine across the floor and down the walls. Jaime entered nonetheless and Tte cup itself clattered onto the stone, where it was picked up again and examined. 

“Very mature, brother.” Jaime set it down and turned on Tyrion, who had thrown himself into a chair, facing away from the door, eyes fixed on the cold hearth. It hadn’t been lit the night before, and the evening chill still hung in the air. He tapped his fingers idly. 

“What is it you want?” He spat out. _If he wants my opinion, I will ram by knife into his gut. If he means to comfort me, I will do the same._

He heard Jaime take another step forward, then another pair of feet, lighter, following him. _Who else has he bloody got? Too small of a step for Brienne._

_“_ Turn around Tyrion, look at me.” 

He sighed deeply, grasping the chair arm with one hand to turn himself. At first, all he saw was his brother, wearing his lighter clothes instead of full armour, dark circles beneath his eyes but a slight smile of his face. Tyrion could sense the presence of someone else with them and, as if she knew, a woman crept out from behind him, hands trembling and clasped together, skin as pale as a ghost. 

_She is a ghost._

Red hair framed her high distinguished cheekbones and taut jaw finely. She wore a gown of greys and blacks, cinched together at the waist to emphasise her slender frame and elongate her already impossibly long legs. She was a vision of colour, even if she appeared made of snow itself, but he knew better. 

“A whore?” He scoffed. “You’ve found me a whore? Do you not recall what happened the last time?” He shook his head and forced his eyes away. He thought of his first wife, found by him and Jaime and taken away by their father, kept away by lies his brother had only admitted to before sending him East. He had thought it forgiven, a mistake of the past, yet now he tried it again, he realised it still pained him. Jaime had taken away his chance at happiness, at peace, and now though Ellaria Sand had stolen his second chance, it was once again his brother who was inadequate, heartless. _He still thinks of me as the whore-monger I was once. Give me a pretty thing and all will be forgotten. If she looks like Sansa, even better! There could be no possible flaw in that plan._

“She’s not a whore, Tyrion.” Jaime sighed. 

“Just some poor girl you found wandering then? Well, pay her all the same and see yourselves out.” _What’s worse, bringing me a whore, or making a poor girl one?_

Jaime did not do as he was asked and instead stepped forward, dropping his voice and furrowing his brow. “Tyrion, it’s Sansa, your wife.” 

Now he laughed, loud and bitter. He fixed Jaime with a withering look and balled a hand into a fist. “My wife is dead, Jaime. I don’t know what you were thinking and though she does look similar, that is not her. She is in her fucking tomb. I am here. Unless you mean to tell me she simply got up out of those crypts and walked her way here, that it how it will remain.” 

“I was _dragged_ from my tomb and I would say it was more of a stagger than a walk.” The woman spoke up from across the room, her hand sweeping across the edge of a set of drawers. She hadn’t said a word until then and after his initial look over her, he’d vastly ignored her presence. Yet the specific lilt in her voice and strange words turned his head. 

He looked over her more carefully, pushing himself out of the seat as he did so. The dress wasn’t just any grey and black dress, it was one of his mother’s, dyed to fit his wife’s style. A travelling cloak sat crumpled across her shoulders and secured at her neck by a tiny wolf broach with a glinting sapphire eye. The cloak itself was stained a rusty brown in several places and had been ripped down one side as if in a struggle. Her hair, the colour of amber, was unruly and knotted, like someone had just hauled her from bed, and was only secured on top by a black hair net, covered in tiny dark stones that glittered in the faint light. 

He knew the hair net. He knew the broach at her neck. He knew the green stone on her finger that flashed on her outstretched hand. He reached out to grasp it, to feel those hands in his own again, their warmth, not the cold form he’d left behind so unceremoniously in the darkness. 

He held back. 

_My wife is dead. This is some_ _sorcery;_ _some trick Jaime is pulling for what- his enjoyment? Mine?_ He shook his head fervently and swayed on his feet, caught between a step forward and backward. 

“Tyrion?” 

Her voice was soft, sweet and tender, something from a dream. It was not the broken rasp of a corpse, nor the pained cries and spluttering of a poisoned woman. _I am dreaming, I’m asleep, this isn’t real._ Yet, he couldn’t deny how real it felt. There was no obscure glaze of a dream and nothing else out of the ordinary had befallen him. It was only the dead woman, his dead wife, before him that made him glance towards the bed, half expecting to see himself under the furs, stuck in the nightmare he was living. 

“Where did you get that?” He pointed to the green stone at her finger. 

“I found it in the counting rooms at Casterly Rock. You gave me the ring.” 

He recalled the way her eyes glittered when he presented it to her. 

_Countless people knew about that, proves nothing._

_“_ And the hairnet, what’s special about that?” 

He hands fell upon her head, running across the fine lacing in inspection. She withdrew them and smiled faintly, sadly. “They were given to me by Ser Dontos, meant to be used to poison Joffrey.” 

It was one of the finer pieces in her collection, despite its morbid history, and someone had chosen to rest it on her in death in place of a crown. 

_Surely people knew about that too. Who would she have told? Who have I told?_

“And the broach?” 

“This?” She reached up and unclasped the small silver direwolf, letting the dirtied cloak fall to the floor. Absentmindedly she ran her thumb along its snout. “A gift from my father, before he died. On the inside it has my name, carved in his own hand.” His eyes drifted momentarily to a jacket hung across the back of her chair where a small gold lion caught his eye. They were back in King’s Landing, lit by the late evening fire, exchanging the broaches and vowing only to wear their own when they truly deserved it. 

He hadn’t realised that with every answer she’d given, he’d moved forward. Now he was caught staring upwards, searching for a fault, anything that would give her away. 

“Bloody hells!” Jaime shouted from the position he’d taken, leaning on the back of chair. 

He fought the urge to say anything back but there was no point in fighting, he was struck still and his witty retorts melted away before they reached his mouth. 

_Sansa is dead._ He reminded himself. _I watched her die. I watched her die. I watched her-_

_I watched her drop to the floor. I watched her claw at her neck as if to force the air in. I felt her hand grasping me with the last of her energy as she fixed me with her final look._ Her eyes had never been bluer in that dark room, strikingly vivid against bloodshot white. Their radiance only lasted a second, replaced by the dull stillness of death. 

The woman sat down on her knees in-front of him, a look of restraint across her features. His hand reached forward of its own volition but she caught it before it could cup her cheek. Instead, she guided it to the back of her head, pressing his fingers against something hard and scab-like. _She cut her head when she fell._ He could remember the blood trailing down the stone steps, it had seemed like so much at the time, though when he looked back, it was a smudge of red, nothing more. Then he thought of the cloak she’d worn, still stained with her own blood. Up close he could see the faint scratches at her neck, the bruising where a strong hand had held her, and bloodied knuckles that he could not yet explain. She limped when she walked, she knew the things no one else would know and she looked just as he remembered, perhaps even better. 

As he sat in silence, she brought his hand back down and laid it softly against her breast where he could just feel the rhymical tremor of life beating hurried inside. And he _felt_ it. It could not be some illusion or trick; it was too real to be part of a dream. 

He shook his head again, and again, and again, until he realised that he was crying. In his head he was back in the Rock, his head resting on her chest, feeling the thumps of every heartbeat as they lay in perfect silence. It was the same feeling, the same heart and, so, he decided, against the very logic of life that his life was dedicated too and against his own rationality that chastised him for his vain hope, is was the same Sansa. 

_It’s impossible, but so were dragons, and men born of ice and death._ Even the greatest maesters with the greatest knowledge of the world they lived could not explain most of it. _There’s a whole ocean to the west that remains unexplored, why should any man declare himself an expert on such_ _a_ _hazy topic as death?_

Tyrion glanced up, finding the same watery blue eyes fixed on him, expectantly, patiently, lips curled slightly upwards as the silence mounted to a crescendo. 

He broke it. 

“Sansa?” 

Hands and arms and eventually lips met in a flurry of touch that soon drove Jaime Lannister out of the room, making excuses that went unheard. In that room, time ceased to be and the two each silently vowed to remain there forever caught in an endless embrace as the sun set on a grey day. For Sansa Stark, she closed her eyes tight and felt every touch of her husband’s she’d ever felt, falling upon her all at once. From the first time he took her hand, helped her to her feet in the Great Hall after being humiliated and stripped by Joffrey to the feeling of his flesh in her hand as she choked out her last breaths. 

“Are you alright?” He at last pulled away, a look of near crazed urgency flashing across his eyes. “Your head, is it-” 

“I’m fine.” She breathed, glad to say the words and believe them. “A little shaky but, I’ve been worse.” 

“I-how did you it?” He caught a strand of hair and held it between his finger, still ensuring it was real. She felt the watching gaze on her, as if he was certain she’d disappear any moment. 

“Some wine first, strong as well. Then I’ll tell you, Arya wanted to know too.” 

“Is she –alright?” He hated to admit that he hadn’t checked on the younger Stark sister at all. He’d just hoped she could handle herself, but locked himself away like a madman and sink further into himself. 

“She’s fine, relieved not to have to take my place.” She chuckled softly. “Wine, then I’ll tell it all. As much as I know, at least.” 

An hour later, after several goblets of wine, in a seat by the hearth, Sansa finished her tale, this time telling almost all of it, and bid farewell to her sister who embraced her tightly and warned her against dying again. When she was gone, Sansa and Tyrion remained in their chairs, warming hands and feet at the fire, lost in thought. 

“We’ve been here before.” She remarked offhand, eyes lit by streams of flame. “Sitting like this, together.” 

“When you plotted to kill Joffrey.” He recalled. “And those nights before the dead came.” 

“There’s something about the fire – I can’t explain it.” She thought back to the green fire that erupted at the Blackwater, of the torches she carried on the way to Joffrey’s chamber, of the fire that rippled across one side of her face, of the flames that saw of the dead and the ones that had taken Melisandre’s life. “I think I understand why some people think its sacred, a connection to the Gods.” Unthinkingly, her thumb ran across the slit that ran across one palm. She had never believed in the Lord of the Light, until she saw Azor Ahai and held his sword. Neither had she believed in blood magic yet she felt its power in the necklace around her neck and knew the miracle it had created for her. 

_Fire and blood. What did the_ _Targaryens_ _know that we do not? Perhaps that fire is not just destruction, but life as well._

Tyrion leant forward and rested a hand atop hers. “Blessed by fire.” He smiled. “The Burned Wolf.” 

“Sounds better than the _little bird of the Red Keep_. The fair maiden, the damned wolf-girl, the pitiful princess.” 

“You were never pitiful.” He tilted his head. “From the first day I saw you in the Red Keep, holding your own against Joffrey, I knew you weren’t a little bird at all. Damned? Perhaps. And surely, we’ve met enough of them to know that there are plenty of dangers of _fair maidens_. Everyone who’s lived was weak once, has felt weak, acted out of weakness. But they survived, not by chance or by rank or birth. Everyone who lives today does so for a reason. They chose life over whatever was easy.” He squeezed her hand. “Cersei, Stannis, the bloody Night King- all thought they were destined for power, for greatness, so they failed, because they were wrong. A little weakness goes a long way yet having none at all is the greatest weakness there is.” 

She raised her cup. “To weakness.” 

“To weakness.” 

They took hearty gulps of the strong wine and set their cups down again. 

With a small squeak of effort, a black mass leapt up and found itself in Sansa’s lap. It spun round once, twice, before tucking its tail beneath its body and curling up into a dark ball. Sansa laid her hand on the cat’s head and rubbed circles on it with her thumb. When she’d left Winterfell, Missy had been a kitten, yet now she was almost full sized and a great deal heavier. 

“Now,’ Tyrion sat back comfortably in his chair, “what was it you said to Cersei again?” 


	20. The End

Sansa Stark knew fear. She knew the feeling of absolute dread that boiled in her stomach like acid. She knew the ice seeping through her veins that held in her place. She knew the feeling of emptiness that only came with the thought that all was lost. But she also knew that fear itself was not to be regretted. Fear keeps men cautious, forces them to be still and plan their actions with greater care. Like pain makes the body aware of injury, fear makes us aware of danger. Damned is the man who fears nothing. 

Yet, sitting in bed, slightly propped up on cushions, hands resting above the furs, she was aware of another type of fear that turned her stomach, froze her in position and rendered her mind blank. Yet, comfortable as she was, she knew this time that there was no danger- no assassin stalking her, no dead man rising to grasp at her with bony fingers. She was perfectly safe and content, yet plagued by an irrational fear of nothing at all. 

“Are you alright?” Tyrion had stripped down to his underclothes and was just crawling into bed with her when he cast his eyes over his wife’s sudden paleness and had to force the thought of the crypts far away. He could see the furs around her moving up and down with each breath and caught her fingers twitching. Still his eyes trailed over her in concern. She had been unusually silent that evening, had eaten little at dinner and had opted for an early night despite invitations from her Hand to join him for wine. He supposed she was ill, that made the most sense, yet he couldn’t understand why she hadn’t said anything. Normally she complained like a child when her nose ran or her lungs coughed and heaved, but she showed no others signs of illness and hadn’t said a word to him. 

“I’m fine.” She smiled faintly, not meeting his eye. While he knew it couldn’t be true, he was also certain she hadn’t lied. Her lies were easy to spot, but this had fallen from her mouth without resistance or effort. He shook his head and fell onto his back at a loss. 

Now Sansa felt she was being cruel. She knew she was acting strangely, though she tried to cover it up, but she couldn’t help the waves of nausea that had passed over her when the food was presented to them that evening. Nor could she help her desire to be alone with her husband, instead of with her friend, though now when that time had come, she found herself speechless. 

She glanced towards him. He was laying perfectly still on his back, chest rising and falling in the rhythm of sleep and eyes drawn shut. 

“Tyrion?” 

If he was asleep, then she wouldn’t be able to speak with him that night, which meant she would not do it the next night, or the next, or perhaps ever. 

With a slight groan, his eyes flitted open and turned on her. She pushed herself up slightly more, wrapping her arms around her exposed shoulders that had slipped out of the warmth of her covers. Her fingers found a stray strand of hair and fiddled while she waited for a reply. 

“Yes-” He sighed, raising his eyebrows in her direction. When he saw her, sat before him, huddled up and pale as milk, he jumped up. “Sansa, what is it?” His voice dropped, seriously. 

“I-” she faltered. In her mind she hadn’t gotten this far. All she had imagined was starting the conversation, then ending it. Everything was expected to slot into place and happen of its own accord. “I have news.” 

“News?” He tilted his head. “Good? Bad? Is it about your sister?” Arya Stark had been gone for almost two years, and Sansa made no secret of her longing for her. She found it almost amusing to think of how much she had detested the messy beast when they were young and how much she wished to see her now. They were doing well in Storm’s End, she knew, though Arya’s letters dripped in distaste for the tedium of her duties as Lady Baratheon. Still, she admitted to enjoying having the run of the keep and detailed their hunting trips and visits to markets laboriously. She promised to come North soon, but the arrangements were yet to be made. 

“No.” She smiled, shaking her head. “And,  _ good  _ news.” She clasped her fingers into and out of fists, a brief distraction. When she realised Tyrion was still waiting for her to speak, she sniffed and continued. “I went to the  maester this afternoon.” 

“You’re sick?” He interrupted sharply. 

“No, gods no.” She assured reaching forward and grasping his hand. “I thought I might be. I’ve gone off my food, I was feeling ill and I hadn’t had my moon blood in a few months.” She felt colour creep her  neck and blossom across both cheeks. 

“And?”

“Thomos said, well, he thinks- he said-”  _ gods, spit it out you fool! “ _ He said I’m with child. A few months in as well.”

Silence. Sansa turned to see Tyrion staring just passed her, green eyes vacant and lost in thought. She had expected some shock, she herself had been struck silent when the  maester had delivered the news, but it still  fuelled the dread that she had been trying to avoid. 

“Tyrion?” She squeezed his hand and shuffled slightly closer to him. 

“I-” he gently shook his head, meeting her gaze with wide, unblinking eyes. They flicked over her face, in search of some joke, and then over her, landing on the place where her stomach would be, hidden under layers of furs and clothing. “He was certain?” Tyrion managed. 

“I’m to see him again in a week, but he thinks so. There are women in the town I can see to confirm it but-”

She was cut off by lips pressed briefly against hers, two hands cupping her cheeks and one of the broadest smiles she’d seen in some time. 

“A child?” He grinned.

“Ours.” She corrected softly, resting her hand atop his. “Heir to the throne of the North. Future King or Queen.” 

“Or not,” he shrugged though she did not understand. She was swept up by the moment that she chose to ignore his meaning. 

“You’re glad?” For a moment she had been worried he would be spiteful for her for it. She feared he would see it as a mistake. She could not blame him for the apprehension; his mother had died birthing him and any child he had would always have the chance of being born a dwarf like him. That possibility did not scare her. From the day she decided to stop drinking moon tea, she was well aware of that chance and found it was not something she feared. She loved Tyrion and could not see herself resenting a child for being like him. 

“Glad?” He smirked. One hand snaked under the covers and rested against her shift atop the barely perceptively bump that only now become obvious. “I could not be happier.” He brushed his lips against hers once more and blew out the candle by his bed, the pair of them holding  each-other until the lull of sleep took them away.

It was six months later that Tyrion found himself in the exact opposite mood, his blood hurling around his body and his mind racing at an unfathomable speed. He was pacing back and forth across the floor of his solar while screams and shouts sounded from the rooms above. Every second, he was sure he would run upstairs and barge into his bedroom but Jaime sat with him, offering his best effort at comfort and keeping him from bolting. 

“I am beginning to understand why Robert took a hunting trip whenever Cersei’s time came.” Tyrion had taken a break from pacing and cursing to address his brother. It still didn’t help him ignore the cries from upstairs that appeared to be growing louder. 

“He did it because he couldn’t stand the fuss of it all.” Jaime shrugged. “He didn’t care what happened to Cersei as long as he got another heir out of it. Even then, he had enough bastards to fill in if she couldn’t give him any. I sometimes think he wished something  _ did  _ happen to her while he was away. It would’ve been a lot simpler for him that way.” 

Tyrion knew Jaime was no stranger to childbed. He had stood vigil outside Cersei’s chambers when she was in it, listening to her but having to act with the greatest restraint and mask his concern with brotherly love. Now it was only his sister that lay in the rooms above, but he was sat hunched forward, hands clenched and face grey, sharing his brother’s torment. 

_ At least she has company too.  _ Tyrion reminded himself as he looked at his brother. Brienne was upstairs along with Jeyne Greyjoy although the young stewardess had appeared sickly at the mention of birth. Theon had joined them for a time, but had excused himself with work he needed to complete. Sansa had remained on her throne only until she had barely been able to make the walk to the hall. Since then, Theon had sat in her place and went to them every afternoon to update her. It was all good news; the harvest had been plentiful again, some families in the Gift had resolved a conflict that had taken several lives, and a mummer troupe had arrived in the keep, ready to entertain the Queen and her household. Such news had been a well-received distraction then but now served little purpose. Tyrion could not give any number of shits that a bunch of bards were awaiting their pleasure.  _ There will be no show at all if- _ he couldn’t even think it. 

“Catelyn Stark had five healthy children.” Jaime had reminded him at the start of the day when Sansa’s pains had begun. “And our mother managed twins and had many siblings herself.” 

_ And then came me.  _ He did not wish to think about it, but the thoughts came nonetheless. If anything went wrong and the child turned out like him? He knew he’d blame himself. Though Sansa had distinctly warned him against it, he knew he would. It was selfish to wallow and retreat within himself, but neither could he be expected to ignore the obvious. Once more he shook the thoughts out of his head and carried on pacing, trying desperately to think of anything else. 

“Tyrion-” 

He stopped dead in his tracks, noticing it as the same time as Jaime did. A hush had descended upon them as if the very ceiling had caved in. Before anyone could stop him, Tyrion was on the stairs and climbing as fast as his legs would allow him. He reached the door and, with a trembling hand, reached to push it open when -

“Your Grace?” One of the midwife women had opened the door before him and he had to stumble forward not to fall on his face. The woman was rubbing her hands together on her apron and eyed him suspiciously. “I was just coming to fetch you, come in.” She stepped aside and he took in the scene. 

Women and the  maester were crowded around the bed, all standing quite still and not hurrying and shouting urgently as he’d expected. He moved in closer and saw, sitting against the headboard of the bed, face flushed and covered in a sheen of sweat, his wife, laughing softly at something one of the women had said. 

_ She’s alive, more than that, she’s smiling.  _

As he moved closer, unnoticed by the rest of the room, Sansa’s attention was caught by something out of sight. She looked down, pulled a strange face and laughed once more. The room was far from the image of chaos and pain he had painted in his mind from the noises he’d heard. There was a calmness, a serenity and, at its centre, a child dozing in its mother’s hold. 

Eventually, Tyrion was noticed, and the midwives parted for him, excusing themselves to tidy up discarded towels and pour away a tub of warm water that he’d watched be taken and up and down stairs to be replenished while he’d been waiting. 

“Congratulations, your Graces.” Maester Thomos grinned, wiping a rag across his brow. He too stepped aside, letting Tyrion stand by the bed and peer into the bundle in her arms. Within, he could make out the tiny frame of a babe, a mass of soft red skin, large eyes and a pair of hands, grasping the air. He reached a thumb forward and brushed it against a plump cheek. At the touch, long eyelashes flickered and two eyes stared dreamily towards him, a rich blue even brighter that Sansa’s. Tyrion was transfixed, lost in their sleepy gaze that regarded him curiously. 

At last, he broke away and turned to his wife who was watching the pair of them in amusement. He had no words to say to her – no words could do the feeling in his chest justice.

“A girl.” She spoke instead, her eyes also not straying from their daughter’s head for long. 

“Is she?” He could see nothing wrong with the child, but he had not seen enough to know. 

“Perfectly healthy child. Strong as the Queen.” The woman who had met him at the door had stepped towards them. “Do you have ideas for a name for the princess?” 

Tyrion had not thought that far yet. His mind was still lingering on the word ‘healthy’. Only then did he realise how dire his expectations had been, how pessimistic. Now, to look at them both, he wondered how he could ever have doubted that it would all be alright.  _ She’s not even like me.  _ Names, were a whole other train of thought he hadn’t reached yet. At that very moment, he forgot every girl’s name he knew. 

“Joanna.” Sansa rocked her arms softly. “If you like it?” 

He blinked towards her.  _ Joanna.  _ His mother. The mother he never knew but had loved nonetheless. The mother that had given her life for him to live. He still wondered whether that sacrifice had been worth it. Yet, when he thought of the name, he did not think of the Lannister’s portraits he’d lingered on at  Casterly Rock. Instead, he only saw the sweet bundle in front of him, big blue eyes, flushed skin, searching hands. That was his Joanna – Joanna Stark. 

“I love it.”

The next time Sansa Stark fell pregnant, she did not fear telling her husband, nor did she need to worry about it, he guessed before she’d even opened her mouth. 

“You look just as you did before.” He chuckled, planting a kiss against her cheek and sipping at his wine. 

“The size of barge?” She crossed her arms over her chest and sank back in her seat. 

“Aglow.” He hummed to himself, ignoring her sulkiness that reminded him strangely of their Joanna when she was in one of her moods. 

Sansa’s first time in childbed had gone so smoothly and without incident, that the fear Tyrion had once felt dropped away. Of course, he still knew complications could arise and that he could never be free of worry, but he allowed himself to look forward to the date, instead of constantly fretting and dreaming of the worst. 

Yet, those dreams came back in full force when Sansa grew ill. It was the near the end of her time when she was struck down, feinting on her way to the Great Hall, and taken to her bed with a raging fever. He heard the  maester mumbling lowly to the women with their herbs and concoctions but they only spoke pleasantly to him, as if nothing was the matter. He slept in the adjacent room to her, despite his protestations, but stayed by her side in the day, bringing her the now  two-year-old Joanna to brighten her sour mood. 

By the time her time came, with its pains and screams, most of the illness, whatever it was, had passed, yet it had run through her like a spearpoint and left her exhausted and still bed-bound. As the midwives tended to her, pressing cool rags on her forehead and mumbling encouragement, Thomos took him aside and would not meet his eyes as he spoke. 

“I fear, the Queen does not have the energy for this. If she cannot deliver, it will put both her and the babe’s life in danger.” 

Tyrion cursed the Gods for the blow and still cursed them many years later, when he got the chance. He planted his feet in that room and refused to leave when he was ushered away. Eventually they ceded and he sat on the bed next to her, squeezing her hand and trying his best not to think the worst when the worst was all he could see. She struggled and heaved and panted but she kept having to be roused and forced to try again. Though she screwed up her face and did her best, the women looked gravely to one another and spoke only in hushed tones. 

At one point, Tyrion had given up all hope as Sansa swayed in and out of consciousness, seemingly oblivious to what was happening, deaf to the shouting and blind to the faces above. He could do nothing but whisper his encouragements, beg her to wake again and try again. The maester was growing greyer by the minute. 

“One more time.” He demanded in her ear. “For me and Jo. Do it.” 

And she did. With a last spark of energy left in her, Sansa gritted her teeth together and screamed out as she pushed with all her might. Moments later came the strained cry of a babe and Tyrion fell back onto the bed and laughed, giddy all of a sudden. 

Sansa was delirious, and did not move much, but there was a redness in her cheeks that sang of life, even if she appeared so limp. He was preoccupied with holding her, pouring his gratitude and relief into her, that he did not notice the silence at first that was broken only by a few small cries of the child. It was only when he felt the presence of the  maester hanging above them that he looked up and was met by the women who would not meet his gaze and Thomos, holding the child in his arms and smiling only with his lips. 

“A boy.” He declared happily, resting the bundle in Tyrion’s arms instead of the weak  Queen’s who had just enough energy to gaze towards her child through her lashes and sigh contently. The  maester said nothing more, but nothing else needed to be said. Tyrion knew what he was holding, what he could see and his stomach twisted. 

_ He’s like me.  _ The child’s head was overly large, his chest broad but his arms and legs so much shorter than their daughter had been. 

“He’s gorgeous.” Sansa laboriously reached for his hand and giggled gently as he cooed and wriggled. Tyrion turned to see her gazing into the bundle in his arms, utterly smitten with what she saw. At first, he thought she was putting it on to hide her disgust, a false smile to save his feelings. But he knew her better. He knew that she was terrible at lying – the least deceitful person he knew. “And look, his hair is already dark, like his grandfather.” 

Tyrion saw it too, the small tufts of dark hair sprouting from his head. Joanna had grown into her namesake with rich blonde hair already reaching far down her back and the brightest blue eyes. There was no doubt this boy was a Stark though, dark hair, dark eyes, and already a wildness about him in his jerky movements. Tyrion grinned as he admired his son and a thought came to him that felt so right, he knew nothing better would do. 

“Eddard, don’t you think?” He mumbled to his wife, leaning dreamily on his shoulder as the woman cleaned and tidied franticly around them. 

“My little Edd.” She spoke, eyes closing. “Perfect.” 

_ Three children, Bran said we would have three children.  _ Tyrion waited eagerly for the news he knew would eventually come of their third and final child, though he did not expect one to come soon, as Sansa recovered from her illness and returned to her usual duties.  _ Stress.  _ That had been the  maester’s final understanding of what had weakened her so. A normal sickness, a winter flu, that had struck her hard and fast while she worked, always on her feet, always making plans, travelling or holding court. 

They were both so smitten by the new Stark prince that neither felt a great rush to have another. Joanna would be starting her lessons soon and Eddard needed care, so they fell into a usual routine and pushed the thought of having any more into the future. 

It was in the new summer when the North was struck by  amystery ; an unknown beast was terrorising villages in the Gift but had been  avoidinjg capture for months on end. Many groups of hunters and warriors – from the villages, nearest keeps and Night’s Watch alike – had tried their hand against the beast but had come back severely wounded or not at all. Those that survived could hardly string together an accurate description but all were certain it was nothing they had seen before. 

The King and Queen of the North, receiving weekly reports of the creature’s devastation, sent word out as far as it would travel of a large bounty on its head. Many came to their halls, intrepid and cocksure, but none were successful. Until the stranger arrived. 

The stranger gave no name but received his nickname for the fear he put in the hearts of those that came across him, swearing they had seen the Stranger himself, the seventh and most ghastly of the New Gods. Some whispered that he was indeed death embodied, come finally to take the beast back where it belonged. He travelled to Winterfell, arrived in the dark of night, and left having only a small meal and the promise of adequate payment for his long voyage to reach them. He, of course, never specified exactly where he had travelled from, but by his peculiar appearance and accent, they knew it to be far away. 

The stranger did not travel alone, at least, he may have desired to but a woman close on his heels refused to give him that option. She introduced herself as a wise woman, also without a name, and as his companion and helper if magics were necessary. 

While all waited for news of the stranger's death or failure, the witch-woman remained at Winterfell and familiarised herself with Sansa Stark, one day turning on her and declaring-

“Your child’s name day will be on the first day of the new year. They say that is a good omen.” 

_ Who says that?  _ Sansa later wondered yet, at the time, she was struck by the rest of the outburst. 

“My child?” She questioned, thinking of her Jo and  Edd , neither of which being born around the new year. 

“The one you are carrying now.” The witch spoke offhand, as if this was no news. Then, in realisation that this was indeed new information, her eyes widened and she stuttered. “Oh my – um – congratulations, your Grace.” 

Sansa shook off the strange encounter and ran to see the Maester, who confirmed what the witch had seen. She told Tyrion next who was thrilled and tried not to think of the weird woman’s words. 

A week later, the stranger returned, hauling in an old cart the bloodied body of a creature that indeed appeared to come from a different world. They paid him generously, offering him a place in the keep if he needed, but he took the fee and only stayed a night before starting again on his journey back to wherever his home was. The witch-woman left too, but explained she would not be travelling with him. She instead had decided to stay a while in Westeros and explore, turning on them with a flick of her thick black gown and riding as swift as a raven on an even day. 

Late into her pregnancy, Sansa received an invitation from White Harbour from the Manderlys to show her their new ships –  _ The Lady Joanna  _ and  _ The _ _ Lion.  _ If Tyrion was not in his last days of his trip South to see his brother at  Casterly Rock, she would’ve sent him instead but, leaving Theon on the throne, she made the journey to the harbour, with word from the  maester that it was safe to do so. 

In the was in the halls of the New Keep that she met again with the strange enchantress, wearing her ebony dark hair in the  Westerosi fashion and supping with the  Manderlys like old friends. She was reminded of their strange conversation but thought little of it. The woman was odd, but interesting enough, and all had an enjoyable dinner as she wove stories of her home leagues away and her many adventures. 

They left several days later, with the enchantress alongside them, who would be finally travelling West again after spending many months exploring every crevice of the realm. She had been most thrilled by the Wall and had spent time in Oldtown, proving the  Maesters wrong in a number of their pursuits. 

They were a couple of days from Winterfell when a great black wolf appeared on the path, spooking the horses which reared and bolted, sending several of the riders to the floor, including Sansa, who fell heavily on her side and cried out in sudden searing pain in her lower abdomen, a more intense version of the pain of childbed she knew all too well. Many hands tried to her help her, sooth her, but she could not stop telling them that it was not time yet, that something was wrong and that she would lose the child. Riders having regained control of their horses, were sent ahead to fetch a  maester , but the pains came too quickly and sharply that it soon became clear there was no time for them to get back. 

“Look at me.” The enchantress had remained beside the Queen but now was on her knees in front of her, a dark look in her violet eyes. “You will have this child and it will be healthy.” She hissed, almost angrily.  Sansa, caught up in it all, momentarily forgetting her pains and the blinding panic, obeyed. 

It was the deepest of night when the child was born, squalling and screaming but very much alive. Being weeks early, the babe was tiny, the smallest thing that Sansa had seen, so fragile and dainty that Sansa feared that she’d crack at the gentlest of touches. 

The  maester arrived in a wheelhouse and started out at once, stopping only when he saw the queen nursing a new-born girl while the others wiped down their horses or drank by the small fire the witch-woman had set. Somewhat uneasily and very slowly, they rattled back to Winterfell, arriving several days later where news of a new prince of princess had already spread and eager eyes peered in the windows of the wheelhouse. 

“You were wrong, you know.” Sansa turned to the enchantress who lingered by the gates, ready to set off again despite a warm bed and meal being offered repeatedly. “She wasn’t born on the first day of the new year.” Sansa had worked it out while they were travelling, that was some weeks away yet. 

“Oh no.” She replied, playing aimlessly with the child, a kindness in her hard eyes, “where I’m from, she was. I forget things here are so...different.” 

Sansa nodded.  _ Of course, she has an explanation. Of bloody course.  _

“I should be going before nightfall.” She seized her horse and swept a leg effortlessly over its back. Something about the woman told Sansa that she wouldn’t care travelling in light or dark. “Take care, your Grace. And you, little one. Perhaps I’ll see you again.” She had been mostly addressing the babe but looked up to Sansa. “Have you decided on a name?” 

“Tyra, after her father.” Sansa bounced her arms softly. 

“Well Tyra, it was nice meeting you. You  _ will _ do your mother proud.” With an odd smirk, she flicked her reins, tightened her thighs and the horse bounded off through the gates and quickly out of sight. Sansa looked down into her daughter’s large green eyes and frowned. There was something uncanny about the way she had said her parting words, like it was some joke only she understood. She shook her head,  _ a strange woman with her strange words.  _ She held Tyra close to her chest and rounded back towards the keep her mind soon taken up with the question of when Tyrion and their children would return from the South.

Yet, she never truly forgot the witch or the knowing look in her eye. When he returned, she told Tyrion of her adventures, but she could never put into words what she meant, and he mostly laughed off her confusion. Still, when the enchantress returned years later as if no time had passed and offered her services to Tyra Stark who had discovered a power within herself that Bran had sensed but could not explain, Sansa Stark was not surprised and handed her daughter over in complete faith that it was the best thing for them all. 

As was foreseen, the King and Queen of the North had three children, Joanna, Eddard and Tyra. 

Joanna, the eldest, grew up curious with her parent’s desire for knowledge and the wildness of her aunt Arya. She was adept in swordplay but shied away from the attention she was given from birth. Often, she escaped from the view of the courts, though her place was supposed to be at her mother’s side and hid away with a book until it was time to eat. She spent time in the court of the South, under the watching gaze of Margaery Tyrell, but enjoyed herself most at Storm’s End with the Baratheons. Gendry often wrote back complaining of the keep having two Arya’s yet still consented to her staying with them and joining them on their travels to Dorne and the Southern islands. 

Therefore, where Joanna came to her parents one autumn day, seven and ten and recently back from a trip to the wall, Sansa could guess what she wanted. 

“It should be Eddie, not me.” Jo pleaded, her eyes jumping between her parents who sat quietly regarding her. “I want to go to Essos and see Slaver’s Bay and maybe Valyria and everything else but-”

“But a Queen cannot run around the world like a raving explorer.” Tyrion chuckled. 

“No, they cannot.” Her mother agreed. “But a princess of the North is perfectly within her right to.” 

It was decided, with little haggling and not the resistance Joanna had been bracing herself against, that she would not inherit the throne. It was not an abdication, more a reshuffle of lineage, and one that favoured everyone, most of all, Eddard Stark. 

Eddard was indeed, as his sister proclaimed, better suited to a crown. As a dwarf, from childhood he was expected to follow the same path as his father, to fall into politics, read everything he could get his hands on and enjoy the calmer, sweeter aspects of life. Edd, however, was intent on proving all wrong. As a child, he read ardently and before he knew his letters, he listened to every story he was told with a careful ear. The tales that stuck most where the same his mother had once fallen in love with, of ancient kings and empresses, of princes and princesses, of fools and fair maidens. And thus, bearing the title Prince, Eddard Stark knew what his place was in the world. Against everyone’s wishes, he trained to ride horses like a soldier, not just for travelling. He learnt swordplay with the other children of the keep and often sparred with sister, using his size against her. While Joanna detested the watchful gaze of the people, he revelled in it, languished in it whenever he got the chance. 

“In another life he would’ve been an actor with a legendary mummer’s troupe.” His mother often remarked and she was by no means wrong. At tournaments, he seized onlookers’ attention with his performances and always stood proudly to attention in court, dazzling ladies with a smile and laughing with the lords. There was no one around like the young Eddard Stark, and he, more than anyone else, knew it. 

For all his gallivanting and performance,  Edd was adept in whatever he picked up and hence bored at anything that left him sat still for a long time. As he grew older, he sat in in court for his mother and attended more and more council meetings in her place, yet always wound up complaining at their tedious droning and lack of excitement. He was lucky, therefore, when his youngest sister returned to the shores of Westeros, searching for a role in Winterfell. 

Tyra Stark was a quiet girl who, despite her early arrival, grew as tall and beautiful as her mother, with green sharp eyes that darted around a room, taking everything in and sparing no detail. While her sister was off travelling the realm and her brother showing off to crowds, Tyra spent a great amount of time with the maester, as curious as Joanna but especially interested in the herbs and concoctions he brewed. She grew plants in Winterfell’s gardens and often spent hours beneath the Weirwood where she liked to arrange her cuttings into tiny  bottles she bought in  Wintertown and lined up across every shelf. 

She was ten years old when she left with the enchantress with only a small bag of her herbs and clothes and a bright, anxious smile across her freckled face. She returned six years later, her red hair turned a rich crimson, her body baring the curves of womanhood and her eyes even sharper and scrutinising than they had been before. She talked like a learned woman and of plants and potions that many had never heard of. Still, her family knew she was the same Tyra that left, just now taller and with a larger bag of trinkets. The young woman set herself up as her brother’s advisor as well as frequent critic of the  maester’s medicinal knowledge. Where  the future King grew tired of seemingly endless council meetings, Tyra had inherited her mother’s interest in such matters and spoke for him on many occasions, as well-versed in matters of the realm as she was in herbs and the Gods. 

It was this state of affairs that Sansa Stark and Tyrion Lannister found themselves in which provoked a conversation one night. Sansa was close to her fiftieth year whilst Tyrion was nearing his  sixtieth . 

“Have you noticed we are completely redundant?” She mused, nose peering over her book to where her husband sat, penning a letter at his desk. 

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” she placed her book down, “with Joanna gone and  Edd taking most of our duties, and Tyra back and settled – what is there for us to do?” 

He looked up from his papers and narrowed his eyes. “Plenty of things.” He shrugged. 

“Like?” 

“Well-” he gestured to the table before him, “writing letters for a start.”

“Tyrion-” 

He sighed, “what do you what me to say? We haven’t had anything much to do here for months now. But I thought that’s want you wanted- it’s a kind of peace, isn’t it?” 

“Well yes and we’ve had plenty of that. But do you think the kingdom would suffer if we were to just – disappear?” A light smile danced on her lips. 

“Disappear?” He leant forward, intrigued. “Where to?” 

“Anywhere we wanted! You always said you wanted to travel, see those wonders you never did. And Arya’s seen almost everything there is to see, and Jo has and soon we won’t want to travel such long distances and across seas but now we still have a chance. And why shouldn’t we?” 

“I don’t see a reason.” He hummed, dropping his pen and turning in his chair towards her. “Could you do it though, leave the North for so long, even if it is in good hands?” 

“If I stay here doing nothing any longer, I would leave it in almost anybody’s hands if it meant a chance to get warm in the South. The world is so much bigger than Winterfell and all I’ve seen in glimpses of Westeros and nothing at all of anything beyond that.”

“ Edd _ is  _ handling himself well,” Tyrion admitted, “and his sister has a certain grounding quality about her.” 

“Why should the kingdom have to be ruled by skeletons when young, capable rulers are sitting right there? If Aerys Targaryen had handed over the throne to Rhaegar while he still lived, the entire realm would look a lot different.” She leant forward. “What do you think?” 

“What about the wedding?” 

Eddard Stark was marrying at the end of the month having found a bride in Catlina  Manderly who had charmed him on a visit to White Harbour. Sansa Stark eventually approved of the match and was now anxiously anticipating the date. 

“After it. It shall be our wedding present to them.” She nodded, congratulating herself on such a perfect design. 

“Then it’s settled. We’ll leave after the wedding.”

“Aye.”

“Aye.” 

They sat in silence, both returning to their individual tasks but in truth thinking about the path that lay ahead of them. It was one so many others had already taken but one that responsibility and duty had kept them away from. Now the road lay clear and open and both could almost feel the fresh air already soaking them it’s crisp quality as they left Winterfell behind and went in any other direction. It almost did not matter where exactly they went, though both had places they’d like to see, but just to get away and turn any corner was enough to ignite a sense of youth that had gone unlit for several years. 

When Sansa finally lifted the crown from her head and presented it to her son on the day of his wedding, she felt the great weight immediately lift from her shoulders. She did not pass it to him as a burden though, he was well aware of its load but all knew he would thrive under the weight instead of let himself be dragged down. 

They drunk wine in toasts but little more and, that night, after the keep had gone to bed and before it had risen once more, Sansa Stark and Tyrion Lannister had packed their horses and were mounted, looking toward the gates of the keep they had called home for five and twenty years. She remembered those gates shattered when Jon’s men tore it down, she remembered it beaten down again after the dead attacked and she remembered building it back up both times, stronger than before. It had endured throughout her reign and something told her it would stand strong for many years to come, battered by storms and swords alike. 

_ This is not the end.  _ She thought, turning back to see the stone towers standing in their everlasting watch as a light fog descended upon them. She knew this wasn’t the last time she’d seen those towers, or the halls or the crypts, so she did not bother to say goodbye to any of them. She did not even ride out to the  weirwood to see Jon for a final time, because there was no finality, no climax, just another leg in her journey that one day would deposit her back home again. 

“Ready?” Tyrion called out, already outside the gate, his face so bright she had certain his age had dropped away overnight. 

“Ready.” She smiled, tapping her horse lightly and turning her back on Winterfell for a time, but not forever. There was no parting sadness, or dread that she had expected, but anticipation. As the dark sky spread out endlessly around them, she saw their future in vague lines and shapes, nothing defined but everything out there, just waiting to be seized. A new energy was bubbling inside of her, one that came with the uncertainty of her future, one she found strangely pleasant. 

Sansa had fought her entire life to find something certain. She fought to end chaos. She fought to bring about peace. 

_ And yet,  _ she thought as the horses began their journey,  _ I _ _ ’m _ _ riding away from all that I fought for _ . _ There are dangers ahead but if I’ve learnt anything in my life, I can be pretty dangerous as well. Peace can wait.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh!! Okay, despite the chapter title, this is not quite the end - never fear. And props to who can guess who some of the characters in this chapter are a reference to...


	21. Epilogue

Valyria was a sight to behold. Towers of stone, once decrepit and crumbling reached impossible heights into the sky, sprouting up from the ash-grey ground amongst halls, houses, palaces, markets and the rest of the bustling city. Fifty years ago, it had been ruins, only scavengers and grey-men stalking the husk of the wonder that had once been. Yet people had returned and built it afresh – expanding what was left behind, bringing in the new, creating a Valyria that rivalled the old in every way. 

The streets were lined with black and white marble, all leading towards the centre of the city; a palace spread over several floors and expanding wider than anything seen before in Essos. The keep was a small city in itself with gardens to get lost in, a market for traders, baths and an arena – enough to keep anyone inside from ever needing to leave. Yet they did, the city without was as inviting as the one within and men and women travelled leagues just for a glance at either. 

Sansa Stark was amongst those numbers one cool afternoon. Her wheelhouse glided smoothly along the newly laid Valyrian roads and she peered beyond the silk curtains to catch a first glimpse of the new kingdom she’d heard so much about. It was all she’d expected and more. The tongues that had told her of its glory had not done it justice, she believed, staring wide-eyed and expectantly at the nearing city. They passed under its gates – an arch constructed of two warring dragons – and the sounds of smells of the streets perforated into the small carriage. She recognised the familiar but still foreign smells of the markets of Essos and the hubbub of life that she had only found respite from on the roads where she could breathe easy for a moment. In truth she would’ve preferred to travel during the winter. Winters in the east were still warm, but they were never sweltering as they were now, and she found herself uncomfortable even in the thinnest clothing and with a constant flask of ice-cold wine at her side. 

The wheelhouse drew lazily to a stop and the door swung open, her guide extending a hand to help her out. Slightly unsteady on her feet after the long period of sitting down, she thanked him profusely for his arm until her legs had settled. 

Before them, glinting in the sunshine, the marble steps lead upwards to the Palace of Valyria which, as she had been told, truly did extend as wide as the eye could see and nearly as tall. Once again, she thanked her guide and bid him take refuge from the sun as she took herself up those steps, cursing them for there being so many, and awaited attention at the top. 

“Isn’t it glorious?” She whispered in awe. Of course, there was no one beside her, but she said the words aloud nonetheless, even if only the wind was listening. She still had hope someone could hear her, even she hadn’t heard or seen any of her family in years, she still had hope they were still there. 

“Queen Sansa, of Westeros?” A guard in a rounded helmet took a regimented step towards her. He was dressed as an Unsullied, but she knew better, those guarding the new city were trained in memory of the mercenary warriors, but did not follow all of their customs, particularly the castration. As far as she knew, they weren’t slaves either, Daenerys Targaryen made her detest of such practices well known. 

_ Queen.  _ The title amused her. Sansa had not been a queen for a long time, for twenty years at least, yet people still used the honorific as if a crown sparkled on her head. She didn’t correct the guard. She quite liked it. 

Instead, she simply nodded, and the guard gave a call that opened the main doors, revealing shining white walls and coal black floors within. For a moment, Sansa felt herself back in Dorne as they walked the open, airy halls and up wide, elaborate staircases. She longed to see the great hall, where petitioners said the piece, but it was too late in the day for court, so instead the guard continued upstairs and up until they reached another set of doors guarded by more, almost Unsullied men. 

As if in communication silently, the guards asked no questions but knocked softly on the doors, waiting a moment, and nodded towards them in a manner which said  _ the Queen will see you now.  _ Finding her guard standing back from her, Sansa took a step forward and the door was pushed open for her to disappear inside. 

She was hit first by the fresh air, streaming in through an archway with its shutters thrown open and thin gauze curtains fluttering softly in the breeze. The room she entered was the Queen’s chambers; a large, black bed at the centre, with chairs and tables at the other end of the room for meetings and small arrangements of books and trinkets dotted around. She took to admiring one, a small model ship engraved with three dragons at its front, when a voice called out for her to step out onto the balcony. 

“Gods, Sansa Stark.” Daenerys was seated, looking out over the city at a mass of sprawling markets and fine houses each with their own balconies and sunlit gardens. Sansa too was transfixed for a moment and knew instantly that it would be impossible to tire of such a view. “You made it!”

“At long last.” She smiled, sitting herself down and accepting a cup of something cool and sweet she had never had before. “What you’ve done here is-” she sighed, “spectacular.” 

“It’s still not done. It’s aged with me, but will keep growing after me too.” 

“Like children.” Sansa smiled sweetly, briefly thinking of her own three children, wondering what they were doing at that precise moment. 

“Indeed.” The Valyrian Queen sipped at her drink. She’d never had children of her own, but when they looked at the city below, it was like looking at leagues of  Targaryens . By making the city, she had given them life, nurtured them, led them to better things. Now she could sit back and watch them flourish with the hope they would never stop doing so. “And yours? I met your eldest some years back.” A memory flashed across Dany’s eyes. 

“They’re well. Joanna and  Edd have children of their own and Tyra impresses me with her skills a little more every day. They are growing old themselves though now, and I think just realising it.” 

“And,” Daenerys looked over, her bright eyes duller than Sansa recalled. “How are they doing with -” she gestured vaguely. 

“Tyrion?” Sansa took looked over towards the empty space next to her. She found herself doing that often, expecting to see him there, smiling, drinking with them, or pouring over a book he’d seized in the other room. But she was alone, and she had been a full five years. “They’re strong, they’re alright.”

“And are you?” 

She smiled softly. “I am now.”

She had not been for some time. Their years of travel were far harder on the both of them than either had expected, Tyrion more so. They spent so much time complaining of aching joints and backs that their trip was constantly extended and they outstayed their welcome a great number at times at the keeps they were welcomed into. Still, neither would say they did not enjoy their time and both were most looking forward to the trip to Valyria to see the new city. Their trip had to be delayed several times, with one of them getting ill or needing rest at a time. It had been seven years since they left Winterfell on the night of their son’s wedding that they at last left the shores of Westeros and began their travels across Essos. They swept through  Bravvos ,  Norvos , Pentos, travelling gradually further South on the mission to see the Targaryen homeland. 

They got as far as Volantis. It was there that Tyrion had first been ill. It was unlike anything Sansa had ever seen, and every night she lay awake, fearing she would wake up alone. When his condition did not improve, she searched the city for anyone experienced enough to help, but none could. With a heavy heart, she packed away their belongings and found a ship to take them back to Westeros to the only person she knew could save him. 

Tyra did her best, brought him back to health, earning her the undying gratitude of both of her parents. Tyrion could not travel again. Even excursions to White Harbour brought on terrible fits of coughing from his weakened lungs. They were glad to be home though. Tyrion did not miss the world outside, instead he revelled in the company of his grandchildren – twins – with hair as red as the sunset in Pentos and eyes as green as the grass on the road to Volantis. 

Then it came again. The winter had had fallen on them was unforgiving and shook the keep through every crack of stone. They bundled up at night, burnt fires all day and night, but a great spout of illness took the castle and though Sansa and Tyrion remained in their rooms to save them from the infection every else, it still found its way in. Both were bedbound and sickly but one morning Sansa woke up, and Tyrion didn’t. 

Sansa knew death. This was worse. 

She lingered like a ghost in Winterfell. As spring came, she remained in her winter clothes, still feeling the chill to her very bones. She could not sleep, barely ate, and eventually had to be put on milk of the poppy to stop her dropping dead from exhaustion. Looking back, she did not remember those days and swore she was not herself at all, but a wandering wisp hanging on in a world that was no longer hers. What place was there in Winterfell for an ageing woman who was once Queen? She sat with her grandchildren and told them tales of the days of the wars, but Tyrion had always been the better storyteller. She  accompanied her own children in their duties but knew she was a burden to them all. 

Things changed all of a sudden. She was sitting in the garden, embroidery in her lap, when she became suddenly aware of the sun beating onto her bent back. She felt the breeze ruffle her hair and saw grey strands floating ahead of her. That was the first time she truly felt her age and it was also the day she decided to make the final journey to Valyria and reach the city Tyrion had so wanted to see. 

“I still can’t believe it.” Daenerys had turned towards the skyline of stone towers. “Sometimes I forget that we are all not -”

“Immortal?” Sansa finished for her. 

“Hmm.” The dragon queen gestured over herself. “But clearly we are not.” 

In truth, the last Targaryen had aged the best Sansa had seen. Her skin, though wrinkled, still resembled fine parchment, and her hair had turned an even brighter white. Age had turned her even more into a living embodiment of her family name and, in her light black and red gown, she knew it. 

“And the South, how fares the Queen Margaery?” She began again. 

Sansa was taken aback by the question and raised her eyebrows before remembering that news travelled differently here.

“Margaery hasn’t been Queen in some years.” She smiled, silently thrilled to be the bearer of such news.  Usually, it was others delivering such gossip to her ear. “She left the city in her fifty third year and has not been seen since, not by most, though I have received many letters from her. I went to see her as well, not long after she left the city.”

“Where did she go?” Dany leaned slightly forward at the news. 

“Pyke. She tried for years to convince the Faith to let her wed Asha Greyjoy, after all that time, I suppose she gave up. The Iron Islands have been more welcoming.” 

Sansa kept trying to imagine the bright and smirking Margaery Tyrell upon those grey rocks or roaming around the grey towers. She’d visited with Tyrion and to both of their surprise, they found her just as happy and assured of herself than she had been in the near endless sun in the South. She showed them her personal gardens, with seedlings she’d carried with her from the Red Keep’s gardens, and walked them around the great wind-beaten keep like it was the palace every young maiden dreamt of. 

“I’m glad for her, if she’s happy.” Daenerys smiled, genuinely. 

Sansa nodded. “She is. They both are.” 

For a time, they sat in comfortable silence, the years apart feeling small, indifferent as they finished their drinks on the balcony. The city was fading as the sun slipped behind distant mountains, but it never ceased to bloom with life. The pursuits of the day – work, hurrying around markets and travel, - gave way to the noise and  splendour of the evening. Lights flowed from drinking houses as easily as the ale and muffled laughter and shouts could be heard from where they still sat, breathing in the cool air. 

“So,” Daenerys began, eyes set ahead. “What’s next for you? Will you travel more?” 

Sansa shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. I have one more place to see, my brother beyond the wall, then I’ll return.” 

“One more place?” She chuckled lightly. “You are not dead yet, surely you don’t plan on never leaving your keep again? Won’t you go South for the summer?” 

“No. After Bran, that’ll be it.” She smiled faintly, her focus on the distance, on nothing in particular. She could feel Dany’s eyes turning on her, examining her in the cool but careful way they did. 

“I see.” She mumbled before standing quickly and excusing herself in a sudden hurry. At the sound of re-approaching footsteps, Sansa spun around to find a sword thrust towards her face. “You should take this.” 

Sansa drew her eyes over, standing from her position and resting a hand on the golden blade. She could still feel the warmth radiating from within. It was strangely calming. 

“Lightbringer?” She looked up. “I can’t take this, it’s yours.” 

“It’s not mine, and it never was. You gave it to me, so I give it back. It’s served me well but-” she smiled in a flash of memory, “-it’s time to return it.” 

Sansa held up her hands. “You have to pass it on, to-”

“To who?” She glanced around. “I have no one to inherit it. No sons and daughters to carry my name.” She sighed. “I have always wondered where you got it from, but I know it was special, and I know it now has to go back.”

“I-”

“Please, Sansa. Return it.” There was a kind of desperation in her eyes that Sansa had not seen in the unmoving Dragon before. Daenerys Targaryen did not know this kind of weakness, yet she stood before her, forcing the weapon upon her, anxious for it to be taken away.

As the sword was dropped into her hands, she felt it for the first time once more. She was standing in that empty land, void of life, and a grand figure stood over her, giving up his legendary blade to her, who could barely lift it, in order to save the realm. She remembered the power she felt in its swing, the light of it as it caught aflame, the heat after it took Jon’s life as payment. She remembered how it hung so limply in Daenerys’ hands afterwards, only a memory of the sacrifice that had been made. 

She accepted the gift without a word and tested its weight in her hands.  _ Either it has grown heavier or I weaker.  _ She could guess which one it was. 

They fell back into silence, now both standing and unsure what to say. 

“I will take it to him.” Sansa assured in a voice just audible. 

Daenerys said nothing but, in her face, there was an understanding that ran deep. She nodded, slowly, carefully, and breathed sharply. In that moment, Sansa felt she knew the Queen of Valyria more than she ever had. There was part of her life she wished to see gone, while the part across the seas in this grand city, she could languish in for the rest of her life. This was what she was made for, the land she was built to rule, but the journey it had taken for her to reach it was a painful and regrettable one. 

Sansa smiled, gripped the sword tightly in her hand and started as a messenger came with news of dinner. 

“Bran?” Sansa had never been to her brother’s home beyond the Wall, he had only ever come to her, but she had at least expected it to be more than a hollow tree. She nearly tripped with every step and wrapped her arms around herself at the sudden, damp, chill in the air. She called his name again, and heard a rustling of leaves and twigs like an animal was approaching. She drew a dagger from her sword belt and held it out. 

Instead, the heart of the  weirwood that she had paid only a moment’s notice too began to shift, revealing, at its centre, her brother, his body supported by the twisting branches of the tree itself. 

“Sansa!” He called out cheerily, shaking his shoulders and sending out a spray of broken twigs and leaves, “you arrived safely.” It was not a question; he knew she had. 

“Yes,” she smiled, relaxing slightly, “thank you for the help.” 

A large stag had met her outside of the tunnel under the wall and his white eyes had gestured for her to climb upon his broad back, carrying her with ease across the frosted wasteland and through into the haunted forest. He had left her outside the great gnarled  weirwood and nudged her forward to the hidden entrance. Sansa hadn’t passed a message on to tell her brother she wished to see him, yet she knew he would be expecting her and did not worry about where she would find him.  _ Bran always knows.  _

_ “ _ You’re well?” He grinned, settling in his position. 

“I am, and you?” She looked over him and knew enough. He had aged, she could tell, but his face was a vision of youth she had lost many years ago. She supposed his body was of no use to him anymore, so it could shrivel and decay, so long as his mind kept working away, seeing the world in the strange way it did. 

“It is lonely out here, but I have no shortage of company.” He shrugged his shoulders. She wanted to ask after Meera Reed, but the words did not come. She wasn’t there with him, that was all she needed to know. “Why have you come here, sister?” 

“You are all I have left, I wished to see you.” She reached into the tree and rested her hand on his forearm. There was no definition to it, as if it had not been moved in years. She wondered what he ate, if he ate anything at all, or perhaps if he ate from the soil as plants did. 

“You have children, grandchildren. What about them?” 

She shook her head. “I am an old woman to them; they mean well but I see it in their eyes. Of course,” she smirked, “they’re right.” 

Bran frowned. “And Arya?” 

“I have not heard of her in five years.” Sansa tried to recall the last time she had seen her sister’s face and found the memory hazy and unreachable. Most of her mind was like that now: shrouded in a heavy fog. Arya and Gendry had left Westeros years ago, gone West, leaving Storm’s End to Shireen Baratheon’s children. They had written often, then when they could, then rarely. Sansa still hoped to hear from her sister, or see her sweet face, but gradually her faith had declined and now she had come to accept it was a fanciful dream. 

“And now?” 

People liked to ask that question.  _ Where are you going next?  _ Her life had once passed from action to action with hardly a break in-between. When that ceased, her family had expanded and brought with it a whole other series of problems to solve, all while she remained Queen of the North. Travelling had kept her life busy and full, but her time alone in Winterfell, she had felt herself fading away. Without the constant swinging of danger and uncertainty, she began to question what there was left for her to do. That was why she had found her way across the sea to Valyria and now that was why she was hunched in the dark, talking to a tree. 

She did not have the heart to say all of that, so she sniffed and shook her head. “Go home, that’s all I can do.” 

“You should do it by the  weirwood .” He spoke oddly clearly, absently. 

Sansa’s head jumped up. “What?” 

“Return the sword.” He explained coolly. “Things like that should be done in front of the Gods.” 

That was where Sansa found herself, sword in hand, walking around Winterfell and into the  Wolfswood , where the  weirwood sat with its twisting branches and bleeding face, waiting for her. She’d left her horse outside the keep and did not go in herself. There was nothing in there for her.  _ If I go in, I will not go out.  _ She could imagine the scene within. The King with his children surrounding him, feasting and laughing as they did. She felt a pang in her chest as she forced herself to move on.  __ The sword was heavy in her hands, but she knew she wouldn’t have to bear that weight much longer. 

She stepped into the spot she had found herself in a thousand times. The place where Jon had slipped from life as easily as the sun falling below the horizon. In her memories it was sweet and simple, though she knew at the time she had thought the opposite. 

Sansa carried on, past the bushes she had hid in while the Night King closed in on Bran, past the spot where fire had scorched the ground and where still nothing would grow. She saw the place where she’d sat in Theon’s arms as the lifeblood spilled from her and thought that it was the end. Then, she had been willing to let go, yet when her time had truly come in the crypts, she had fought it with all her might. Now? She did not know how she felt.  _ I suppose we shall have to see.  _

Shakily, feeling her knees and back strain at the effort, Sansa dropped down to the  snow-covered ground, the  weirwood towering above, arms extended outwards, encompassing her completely. She lay Lightbringer at its base and buried it in the snow. Strangely enough, the heat of the blade didn’t melt it as she’d expected and soon the ancient sword was nothing more than a lump in the snow, nothing at all to most observers. 

Sansa sat back on her heels, peeling back her sodden leather gloves and stretching out each finger in the frigid air. The snow was beginning to seep through her gown but she didn’t feel a thing. All she felt was the warmth at her chest of the ruby, hanging from its silver chain. 

She reached forward a bare hand and laid it against the white bark of the tree. Once she had felt the power of the Gods, seen strange visions and had known what her future looked like. Yet now, there was nothing to see. She was not surprised but comforted by it. The tree’s great branches had once scared her after Robb had let slip that they would cut at those who did not worship the Gods enough, but those reaching arms were extending towards her, not ready to strike, and she wished for them to scoop her up and hold her aloft even for a second. 

They did not. She was left, leaning against the trunk, eyes shut night and heartbeat thrumming loudly in her ears. 

_ My name is Sansa, of House Stark, second child of Eddard and Catelyn Stark, Lady of Winterfell and once Queen of the North, the burned wolf,  _ _ kingslayer _ _. You know me, I think, because I’ve felt your presence before. I cannot count the times I have prayed to you for salvation, for wisdom, and sometimes, I know you have heard me. It is you I must thank for my life. For the time I had, for my children and their lives, for the North. Believe me when I say, I am eternally grateful for all I’ve had.  _

_ But it came with a price. I once dreamt of my life alone, where my friends and family were all lost to me, dead or unreachable, and I thought that the worst form of hell. I thought I had escaped that life but it found me all the same. I had only prolonged it, kept myself alive just long enough to see everyone fade away.  _

_ So, I’m here, returning the gifts you have graced me with. The sword and- and this necklace. Neither are mine, and it’s time they went back to where they came.  _

With a trembling hand, Sansa took the red stone in her hand, wincing at the sudden searing pain as the heat of a furnace pressed against her skin. She wondered if it was trying to stop her, or if this was a sign to carry on. The pain receded after a moment and she released a careful breath through her mouth. 

Sansa Stark knew fear. But she also knew loneliness, heartbreak, pain and loss. She knew grief and every stage of sorrow. She knew longing and disappointment. Fear felt like nothing, a  pinpirck on her skin. She’d stabbed herself whilst embroidering so many times, she didn’t even think about the momentarily sting any more. It paled into insignificance. Sitting on her knees in the snow, she was numb. Numb within and without. She felt nothing at all, bar a sense that she was doing the right thing. The stone was still hot against her palm, but she didn’t care. She’d felt flames before- this was nothing. 

_ I would ask you to take care of my children, but I know they don’t need it. They will never know the war and suffering I have known or that anyone who lived before them experienced. All I ask is for the peace to last, at least a while. The world is hard enough, it should at have a chance to rest. We all should.  _

_ I give myself to you. I have done all I can and made my peace with the world. I am done.  _

In a sharp pull of her arm, the slim chain gave way as it strained at the back of her neck, and a ruby as red as blood, dropped into the perfect snow with a soft thump. 

Nothing. 

Sansa knew what would come when she took off the necklace. It was holding the magic that was keeping her alive. But she hadn’t known what to expect.  _ Will it come quickly, or be dragged out?  _ The last thing she wanted was for someone to find her out there and move her before it was done. 

Her breath caught in her throat. She let it. Whilst one hand instinctively reached for her throat, the other remained firmly on the  weirwood and her eyes remained fixed on the face above her, bleeding red eyes scorching through her. In those eyes, she saw a thousand. Every person she had lost, every smile she had seen fade. Every life lost to those terrible years of war and hate that she had lived through. She saw her family, her friends, her Tyrion, blended in those empty sockets and their eternal stare. 

Something like acid was burning in her throat, and she choked and spluttered to clear it, but she knew there was no need. No one was coming to help her, and she didn’t want them to. In the end, there was no fear, no regret, and the pain  was barely felt. It was sweet after all, as sweet and perfect as dropping to sleep. She did not scream and beg, nor writhe and twist in the agony but fall softly into the bed waiting for her, the bed that had been waiting for fifty long years. She was completely alone in the world and yet-

Lemons. The sudden, intoxicating scent of lemons overwhelmed the grove, combined with the hint of wet grass that normally came after a storm. It all came in flashes. She knew she was before the weirwood, but for a moment, she wasn’t. For a moment she was in bed, or back on her throne, or walking the gardens. And there were people there too, smiling towards her, opening their arms and beckoning her closer. She reached out for them, but in another second, she was back in the dirt, last moments of life dragging into a lifetime.

It did really feel like a lifetime. She saw flickers of her life, from her playing in the wood with her brothers, though she was adamant she wasn’t enjoying herself, to the fateful trip South, to her time in the Red Keep and then her daring escape. She watched herself at the head of an army, still young and fresh as a new needle, its point sharp and clean. She saw herself alongside friends, Kings, Queens and finally, with her Tyrion and the family they made. Whatever grief and loss she felt seemed to drop away – those that she thought were gone, were just a few steps away, all she had to do was reach out and -

Green eyes met hers, bright and warm all at once. They were alone in the clearing but she knew that wasn’t really true. She felt their eyes on her for the first time in fifty years. Her family, friends and everyone else she’d lost were right there, waiting. 

His hand reached forward, rings glinting in the light that came from nowhere in particular. She caught sight of the red stone on the ground, its colour turned a deep, dull crimson, lacking all its previous appeal. She dropped her hand from her throat; she had long ceased breathing. Tyrion  Lannister’s hand sat in front of her. She took it. The  weirwood melted away. 

Sansa Stark found peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this really is the end. I can't thank you enough for all the comments and support you readers have sent me. I've never done anything like this before and often wondered if it was worth it, but your kind words kept me going. I can't believe that what was once a silly idea has turned into this! Thank you for bearing with me, for the slow-burn and with all my horrible spelling and grammar mistakes. It feels strange to part with Sansa here, which is probably why I'm not going to. Watch this space!   
> Once again, thank you. I hope you have enjoyed and have a brilliant day/week/month/year!  
> -abi


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